


Get Your Kicks

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Porn, Blow Jobs, Dean/Cas Tropefest, Exhibitionism, Homophobia, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, Pornstar Dean, Road Trips, Switching, pornstar castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 14:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18671893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: A five year veteran of the porn industry, Dean Winchester is at his wits' end with his employer and the business in general. Incidentally, five years after Castiel Novak's retirement, Sainted Angels finally reels him in for one last film—on one condition: Dean has to be his partner. With retirement on his mind, Dean agrees to film with his idol—but what happens when a dream business partnership turns to something more?





	Get Your Kicks

**Author's Note:**

> Dean/Others and Cas/Others refers to their various partners as professionals.

Beneath Dean, skin gleaming and chest heaving breath after breath, Elias moans, his mouth agape, ripe for kissing. Just because he can, Dean does, swallowing every noise Elias makes, hips flexing when he thrusts in and _in_ , feeling Elias clench around him, for once not for the camera. Yet, surrounded by heat and hands and a tongue that could get him off in record time if Elias tried, Dean couldn’t be any less turned on.

Part of the joy of working on camera is that Dean has had time to practice masking his discomfort, especially when his scene partner takes the perfect opportunity to claw at his back or tug too hard on his hair, or, one time, inadvertently kick him in the face while turning over. With every thrust, Dean forces his face to soften, the furrow of his brow pulled to a slight pinch, even as his knee creaks, pain radiating down to his toes.

Two hours of this—two hours of alternating positions and his dick in Elias’ ass for half of it—and only by sheer will does he stay hard, if only for the sake of finishing off this video. And, fine, himself.

“Fuck, Michael,” Elias gasps, and that’s his cue.

Pulling out in haste, Dean rips off the condom and fists himself, just as a camera closes in over his shoulder. The cameraman films Elias as he strokes his cock, the slick sound of it the only thing keeping Dean hard. Another camera hangs over the headboard, looking down at the both of them, at Elias reaching out to grab Dean’s knee, the bad one, the one Dean can’t stand to even look at somedays. His hips lift, and Elias comes, _Michael_ on his lips as he paints his chest all the way to his chin. Even in his youth, Dean could never do that, no matter how many times he edged himself.

Impressed, Dean nearly misses his cue. Either way, Elias laughs and leans up to kiss him, stubbled jaw scraping Dean’s own, teeth tugging at his lips. In a show of defiance, Dean takes Elias’ wrists and pins them into the pillows, earning a moan from Elias and a rush of heat to his own cock, despite the oversensitivity and his agitated nerves. After that, Dean loses himself in his hand, reveling in the way Elias ruts his hips up against him and mouths at his neck, his nipples. He rears up before he comes, and Elias encourages him through it, practically shouting while Dean spills across Elias’ chest, thick come mingling with his previous release.

 _Make a show of it_ , Dean thinks, when he finally stops twitching through his orgasm, acutely aware of the cameras watching his face. With his come-soaked hand, he smears his fingers through the mess on Elias’s chest, dirtying them with it; Elias takes them in with no hesitation, moaning around Dean’s fingers, eyes fluttering back for show. All for show—It’s part of the script, after all. A wave of lust pulses through Dean’s gut, though, imagining what he would look like if that was him for once, if it were his lips stretched around someone’s fingers, sucking the come off someone’s skin. _If only_.

Kissing Elias almost feels natural afterward, his kiss sweet, smile just as cloying. For a few minutes, Dean forgets the world around him, the noise of the cameras shutting down and producers chatting amongst themselves. Someone offers them a towel, and Dean finally— _finally_ —groans, and not from Elias slipping him tongue. “Oh god, did I hurt you?” Elias asks, abrupt, pushing Dean’s shoulder.

“Bad knee,” Dean wheezes, and rolls over onto his back, sucking in a breath through his nose. Straightening it out helps, and Dean sighs in relief, laughing all the while. “Holy fuck, that hurt.”

“Don’t bruise my ego now,” Elias jokes, tossing Dean a towel. “You sure you’re good? You look like you need a drink, or three.”

Not the first time someone’s asked him out after a scene, and certainly not the last. “Just some Aspirin,” he says, wiping himself down. What he really needs is a shower and a nap, and a vacation.

Thankfully, Elias doesn’t follow up, just offers a smile and climbs off the bed.

 _Just another day_ , he thinks, staring up at the ceiling. One day, this won’t be his job, and he’ll move away from this city, away from his costars and agents and the leering eyes on him at all hours. Part of the package, he supposes. He still doesn’t enjoy it, especially in moments like these, surrounded by faces he knows but names he doesn't. Day in and day out, all he sees is them, knowing exactly what they’re thinking and seeing. Just another broken man, selling himself for quick cash.

One thing, though, he knows for certain—he’s damn good at it.

-+-

Limping his way through the front door, Dean drops his duffel and locks the deadbolt, sealing himself off from the outside world. Sometime during the drive from the studio to his condo down the hill, rain began to fall, turning a normally pleasant commute into a nightmare of suddenly panicked drivers and slick roads. How he managed to make it home, he still has no clue. All that matters is that he made it in one piece, and that his bed is waiting for him, still as messy as he left it.

It’s home, though, or as much of a home as it can be, given the overwhelming lack of furniture and the fact that his bed sits in the middle of the living room. Apartments in Burbank are expensive enough, but a house? Maybe one day, if he somehow scrounged up the money to make a down payment, but even then, he can only dream. Porn only pays so much, and without money from residuals, Dean tries to save as much as he can to pay rent. The rest he squirrels away, just in case he ends up out on the street again.

“So much for glamorous,” Dean sighs, slumping onto the mattress.

For a while—maybe an hour, if he’s counting—Dean rests there, idly watching the Food Network. Outside, he hears his neighbors returning home, and the tenants upstairs galloping down the stairs and diving headfirst into the pool. Cars buzz by on the street, past the parking lot and other rooms, some rented to tourists looking for a cheaper extended stay, others to longtime residents. Dean falls more in the middle, transient but on the lookout for the first place that becomes available that won’t bleed him dry by the end of the month.

The only thing this place has going for it is the proximity to the studio, and relative peace at night—aside from the people screaming in the back alley from two to three in the morning. He should’ve taken the offer in New York City, in hindsight. There, he could’ve gotten a few roommates and lived outside of the city, or even bunked in a hostel if need be.

And not that his costars aren’t exciting, but the monotony of showing up every other day, exerting his body in ways he isn’t meant to, getting his blood tested every two weeks, not to mention fending off unwanted advances from complete strangers in public and online—some mornings, he barely drags himself out of bed. Coupled with the chronic pain in his knee, it’s a miracle he hasn’t just skipped out on his contract entirely and left town.

Five years in the industry, and Dean already wants out.

From the foot of the mattress, his phone rings, vibrating the bedspread and flashing bright in the dark of the room. Even with the sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains, Dean still can’t see, or bother to turn on a light, for that matter. With a groan, he reaches down and fumbles for the device, eventually picking it up and placing it to his ear. “Pamela,” he says, flopping onto his back. His knee creaks, and Dean rubs it, digging his fingers into the scar. “Not like I didn’t see you ten minutes ago.”

“Longest ten minutes of my life,” Pamela joshes. A chair rattles its way across the floor. “How’s your knee been? I saw you hobbling out of here earlier.”

He could lie. He could brush it off and just call it a sprain or a cramp, to ease her fears. The last thing either of them want is for Dean to end up in the emergency room again. Even with Pamela’s insurance, Dean can barely afford the copays. Instead, he goes for the truth, adding, “You’ve gotta let me start bottoming, or something. I can’t stay on my knees much longer like this.”

“But you’re so good at it,” Pamela says, entirely too sincere, and Dean’s stomach tightens. Another rejection, not that he expected anything different. “Look, I don’t have you booked for the next week, so take some time off. After today, you’ve earned it.”

 _Earned it_. Like Dean earned anything more than a few thousand dollars and another night with cold compresses. “There a reason you called?” he asks, an arm over his eyes. Children yell from the pool; Dean’s stomach growls. “I was just about to head out for the night.”

“Sure you were,” Pamela sing-songs. “I actually have a job opportunity for you, and I know you’re gonna be interested.”

“Do you now?” Dean chuckles, turning his head to the window. A car passes, cutting through to the next street. “I swear, if it’s that homophobe—”

“It’s not him, you don’t have to worry about that.” Pamela stops to clack on her keyboard, humming all the while. “Do you remember James Deangelo?”

Briefly, Dean wonders if he has an undiagnosed murmur, judging by how his heart skips several beats. His skin warms just from hearing the name, a memory never quite forgotten, always playing on repeat in his fantasies. For years, Dean longed to touch him. And now, it turns out Pamela knows him—which makes sense, considering James worked for Sainted Angels for years before his sudden departure from the scene. One of the saddest days of Dean’s life, just before he got into the scene himself, was hearing how James Deangelo just walked out of the studio one day and never came back.

Rumors swirled about his whereabouts; most of them were entertaining, but others were horrific. Whatever the reason, no one has heard from him for years—until now. “Who doesn’t?” Dean says, heart racing. “The guy was practically a god.”

Pamela laughs. “Don’t I know it. Everyone and their mother’s been trying to get a hold of him for years, no matter the price. And he’s declined every single time, until now.”

Until now— _until now_. Sitting up, Dean fights off the headrush and blinks at the wall. “You’re kidding,” he says, practically a wheeze. “You booked James Deangelo?”

“On one condition.” A pause; Dean motions aimlessly for her to continue on the other end. “These are his words, not mine. Though, I feel the same way. He’s become a big fan of yours over the last few years—” Dean’s brain stops functioning, Pamela’s words turning to white noise. James is a fan of his—a big fan, in fact. Dean’s favorite performer is a _big fan of his_. “And he told me,” Pamela cuts back in, “that the only way he’d come out of retirement was if he could scene with you, on his terms. One project, one last hoorah before he goes back to doing whatever it is he does.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, air robbed from his lungs. “You’re—James wants to work with me?”

“In the flesh,” Pamela cackles. “And because I’m the highest bidder, I’m pulling out all the stops. Whatever he wants is good with me. Now, I probably don’t need to ask if you’re in?”

Dean nods, frantic. “Fuck yes.” He breaks into a laugh. For years, Dean always fantasized about just meeting James. But scening with him? A whole new ballpark. “If you’re lying, I’m gonna drive back over there—”

“Like I’d lie about James fucking Deangelo, Dean,” Pamela huffs. “He’s in Los Angeles for the week, so now that I know you’re interested, I’ll give him your address. You’re still in that hotel off Olive, right?”

“Until I can find something that doesn’t cost a kidney, yeah.” Exhausted, Dean falls back onto the mattress, the pillow rumpling with his weight. “Any time’s good for me. Ain’t like I can walk out of here right now.”

“Maybe you should start going back to your physical therapist?” she suggests, like Dean hasn’t thought about that twice every day for the last month. “It’s only gonna get worse once it gets colder.”

Dean inhales, holds his breath. “After the thing with James,” he decides, by way of an excuse. By the time he’s done with James, he might just quit on the spot. “Email me when you set everything up?”

“Can do,” Pamela assures. “Take a break, Dean. It isn’t gonna kill you to sit down for two seconds.”

 _But you’re the one booking me every week_ , Dean mentally grouses. Pamela may work him to death, but she’s not his previous boss. She’s not the one who threw him under the bus after the accident in the first place. If anything, she’s always been there, and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.

That afternoon, he falls asleep to the sound of commercials and teenagers yelling in the courtyard; in his dreams, he imagines warm arms around his waist, lips pressed to his neck in the sunlight, and even there, unconscious, he realizes just how lonely he truly is.

-+-

The trip to Ralphs the following morning remains uneventful, aside from nearly tripping over his own feet in the frozen foods section, his only witness a toddler who finds him suddenly the most hilarious thing in the universe. A few frozen pizzas and enough produce, meat and nonperishables to stock his pantry and fridge for the week later, and Dean makes his way back down Buena Vista, past the strip malls and two bedroom homes with manicured lawns and no garages, all costing more than he could make in five years.

His apartment complex—technically, an extended stay hotel according to their website—faces a church and a busy four-lane road, with two floors and a parking lot in the back. Parking as close as he can to his room, Dean carries his groceries around to the back entrance, his knee twinging with every step. Hopefully, the compression sleeve he bought will help, or at least abate the pain before the painkillers kick in. This early in the afternoon, he still has time for a nap and a soak in the tub, maybe at the same time, unpleasant as cold water is to wake up in.

Rounding the corner into the courtyard, Dean rattles his keys free from underneath one of the bags, drawing the room key between his fingers—and promptly drops them at the sight of the man standing outside his door. Said man he taps off the last bits of ash from his cigarette onto the concrete, crushing them with the toe of his boot. From under the gap of his sunglasses, blue eyes turn to Dean, unnaturally bright in person. Dark hair rustles in the midday breeze, opening his half-buttoned shirt a bit further, exposing tanned skin and wisps of chest hair, all of which Dean wants to put his mouth on, even in public.

This is James Deangelo—six feet of muscle and summer-kissed flesh, with a jaw Dean always fantasized about sucking until it bruised, with thighs he could rub one off on given the chance. By some miracle does Dean not drop everything into the pool, and by another miracle does he not fall to his knees to worship the ground James walks on.

“Pam—Pamela didn’t say when you’d be here,” Dean stammers, reaching for his keys. He groans on the way back up, catching James’ attention. “Fuck, can you—”

“Of course,” James rumbles, and God, if Dean couldn’t listen to him read the phone book.

Taking the two bags in his right hand, James backs up enough for Dean to unlock the door, the rush of cool air cooling the sweat beading at his nape. James follows and locks the door behind him, while Dean busies himself by putting everything away in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, out of the corner of his eye, he watches James sit at the foot of the bed, hands between his thighs, looking… utterly approachable. Sure, Dean has seen him with his clothes on before, but now, he’s human, and not the immovable object Dean watched on his laptop. All that bravado’s been replaced with an acute sense of awareness and concern. “I apologize if it’s short notice,” James starts. Dean stashes away the lettuce in the refrigerator before washing his hands, pointedly ignoring James’ gaze. Or, at least, trying to. “Pamela said you were recovering, so I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Dean snorts, heat flushing his cheeks. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout me, James,” he says with a smile, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. “Just a sprain.”

“It’s not.” James shakes his head. If he specifically chose Dean for this scene, he probably knows his past—and the reason he can’t put pressure on his left leg. “My name is Castiel, by the way. Castiel Novak.”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, offering a hand. Castiel’s fingers send sparks up Dean’s arm. “Michael Dayne always sounded corny to me.”

“You do look like a Michael though,” Castiel says. Hands braced behind him, Castiel leans back, his button-down slouching off to one side. Dean can’t help but watch, much to Castiel’s amusement, and never once does he try to cover himself. “You should sit, please. Watching you makes me nervous.”

“Always good to hear,” Dean laughs, but otherwise does as told. He winces as he sits, pulling his legs up onto the mattress and straightening his knee out. On the kitchen table, his compression sleeve still sits in the package, and Castiel takes the time to retrieve it for him, along with two Ibuprofen and a glass of water. “You don’t gotta do that for me, man.”

“It’s the least I could do.” Castiel shrugs. Slipping out of his shoes, he leaves them by the kitchen entrance. “I can’t imagine what it feels like, to have to put up with that much pain.”

Downing the pills, Dean scoots across the bed to turn on the nightstand lamp, bathing the room in additional light. Only then does Dean realize how untidy the place is, from his disheveled laundry hamper to the rumpled sheets on the bed. Just the first impression he always wanted to make. Worst of all, he can’t bring himself to clean up, even with company; Castiel doesn't appear to mind, though, and for that, Dean thanks him.

“I need to start going back to therapy, but I can’t when Pamela’s got me shooting twice a week,” Dean says. “You remember how she is. She’s got me fluffing some days too, mostly for the straight guys. Gives them some kinda power trip, I don’t know. Either way, I’m getting tired of the ice baths.”

“Have you discussed switching with her?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods vehemently. His face drops, brow pinched. “Let me guess.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “She thinks I’m a born top, just because I’m tall and I look like I’m in the gym every day. How am I supposed to do that when I can barely even stand?”

Even though he doesn’t have to, Castiel listens with intent, nodding along while Dean rattles off his ever-growing list of complaints: how he can barely kneel anymore whenever he works at the auto body, how all of the positioning the scripts call for are getting more and more difficult to do at his age, how last week, he stepped in someone’s come from the last scene and gagged at the feel of it between his toes. Only after he finishes and takes a breath does he notice Castiel rubbing his knee, nimble fingers rolling up the leg of his jeans to expose the inflamed skin and the tattoo covering the worst of the scar.

“You never talk about it in your interviews,” Castiel comments, more concentrated on massaging Dean’s calf than noticing the mortification on his face. Castiel _touches_ him, unprompted, almost like he genuinely cares. “I’ve watched your career since you started. I thought you had a lot of promise, and still do, but I wish you’d—”

“Bottom?” Dean suggests, wiggling his brows. Castiel nods, his smile barely there. “Trust me, if I could, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’m not the twink I was in my twenties, and the industry wants to see younger guys fucked, not the other way around.”

At that, Castiel tilts his eyes to the ceiling, a question resonating in his fingers, now rubbing Dean’s knee. It may be the medication, but it does feel better like this, Castiel diligently working to taking his mind off the ache. “I trust Pamela told you that I have free rein over this project?” he asks.

“As long as you’re not planning on stringing me up to a wall or something, I’ll do anything you want me to,” Dean laughs, lightly pushing Castiel’s shoulder. “Seriously, I did a kink video once, took a week for my ass to stop hurting.”

“I’ve never been particular to flogging, myself,” Castiel says. Just the mention of it sends heat skittering through Dean’s veins. “But no, nothing like that. How do you feel about getting out of Los Angeles?”

“Please,” Dean blurts, sitting up straighter. Leaving California sounds like the best idea in the world, especially now—and if Castiel can help? “You talking another studio? Because I need a fucking vacation.”

“I’m thinking the open road,” Castiel says, which— _oh_. “No studio equipment, no strangers dictating your every move.” Releasing Dean’s leg, Castiel turns, only to bracket Dean’s hips. Dean swallows and wills his dick to cooperate. Castiel’s proximity doesn't help that, though, the heat of his breath tickling Dean’s lips, so close, not close enough. “Just you and me. You’ve said time and time again that I was the reason you started doing porn.”

Nodding, Dean sucks in a breath. “I did say that.”

“And truth be told, I’ve always found you…” Castiel pauses, gaze darting down to Dean’s lips. “Intriguing. Not just for your body, but your mind, as well. You’re smart, Dean, smarter than you take credit for.”

“If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s working,” Dean says with a smirk and edges closer. “You know my car?”

“I don’t, but I heard it when you drive in,” Castiel hums. “Do you think it could fit us in the backseat?”

Involuntarily, Dean whimpers. “Only one way to find out, right?”

Castiel smirks, absolutely lecherous, and Dean melts. “I’m thinking a long-term sex tape. Whatever motel we stay in, we’ll film something, either on a tripod or handheld, or both. Whatever you’re comfortable with, we’ll try, and if you want me to fuck you into the mattress…” Dean bites his lip, and Castiel inches closer, close enough for Dean to feel how hot he is. “I’d be more than capable of showing you a good time.”

This is it—this is how Dean dies, in bed with a beautiful man hovering over him, planning to whisper sweet nothings in his ear while he absolutely ravishes him. “Sure,” he squeaks, afterward clearing his throat. “Sure, yeah, I’m—Whatever you want, man.”

“It’s not just about what I want,” Castiel says. “Do you know why I chose you, out of everyone else in this industry?”

“Perky nipples?” Dean joshes.

“That, among other reasons.” To Dean’s lament, Castiel pulls away, taking with him the musk Dean can’t get enough of. “I can see it in your eyes, that you want something more. You want to leave this city, to see the world, and I can help you, even if it’s getting away for a few weeks.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean admits, “Few weeks is more than I’ve had in a long time.” The last time he took a few days for himself, he slept the entire time and ended up back at work anyway, splitting his time between the studio and the auto body on Olive. All he wants is to run, pack up and never look back, and Castiel can give him that—at least, for a little while. “What’re you—When do you wanna head out?”

“I still have business here for another week, unfortunately,” Castiel says. “I flew in to help my friend sell a house in Beverly Hills. He’s filming for a—”

“Wait.” Dean stops him with a hand over his mouth, belatedly realizing just what he’s done. “You’re friends with those guys on the TV? The ones with the hair that bitch at each other—”

“The very same,” Castiel laughs into Dean’s palm. “I’ve been working with a client for a few months and she’s coming to see the house in person before we close.”

“And they—Shit, you sell houses?” Belatedly, Dean lowers his hand, dropping it to his lap. So that’s where Castiel went five years ago—to become a realtor. Out of all the mundane jobs he could’ve gone into, it had to be the one that relies partly on displaying his face. And no one knew. “Does he know? The guy you’re meeting.”

“It’s hard to find a gay man in this city that doesn't, unfortunately,” Castiel sighs. “That’s why I left. And why I’m trying to leave again, as soon as my part is done. It’s… exhausting, having been in this industry for as long as I was, not being able to even socialize with other men, them knowing full and well what I did.”

“Good thing you never had a Twitter, right?” Dean says, then rubs his eyes. “I haven’t logged into mine in weeks, people keep sending me pictures of their dick, saying I’d look so pretty on my knees.”

Castiel huffs, shaking his head. “I can imagine. I only started because I needed to pay for college, but my studio forced me into a contract. The physical toll of it was… exhausting, to say the least, and by the time I left… If I could go back and change my decisions, I would.” He begins to massage Dean’s knee again, this time little more than petting. Dean doesn’t stop him, too busy hanging onto Castiel’s every word. “I’m sorry. I didn't come here to lament.”

“No, dude, you’re fine.” Covering Castiel’s hand, Dean lets out a breath and holds him tighter. “Trust me, I get it. Minute I got hurt, I knew I’d fucked up, but I couldn’t get out, either. I moved all the way here to start over after school, but… I really just wanna go back. Tear up my contract and just get outta dodge, y’know?”

At that, Castiel perks up, brow furrowed in thought. “This could be our swan song, then,” he says in haste. “We’ll give Pamela what she wants, and I’ll find a way to help you negotiate your way out. In the meantime”—again, Castiel surges forward, this time clutching Dean’s hip, fingertips dancing beneath his waistband—“we’ll enjoy ourselves. How does that sound?”

Dean barely swallows a moan. “Good,” he says, winded. “Good, sounds—good. I’ve only got a year left, you think it’s worth it?”

“It’s always worth it, if you can get your life back.”

Before Dean can even smile, Castiel cups the back of his neck and draws him into a kiss, parted lips warm and real against his own. Countless nights, Dean fantasized of this moment, of just kissing him. Experiencing it in reality, though, makes him realize that his fantasies could never compare. Castiel breathes him in like air, and Dean falls onto the mattress with him, straddling his waist, even wider than he thought. Reluctantly, he breaks away, only for Castiel to pull Dean’s shirt off over his head, fully exposing him to Castiel’s touch.

“And here, I thought we’d wait until we hit the road,” Dean manages between kisses, fingers curled in Castiel’s hair. Castiel just kisses his jaw in reply, working his way down Dean’s throat. Wet, open-mouthed, and everything Dean has ever wanted, all of it sending a rush to his cock, already nicely filled out in his jeans. If the bulge in Castiel’s pants is any indication, he’s into it as well. Experimentally, Dean grinds down onto him, and Castiel throws his head back, hips bucking. “ _Fuck_ , man…”

“We can fuck when we leave here,” Castiel rumbles, scraping his nails down Dean’s back. Violently, Dean shivers and lets out a hiss, only to drag Castiel into a harder kiss, teeth nipping lips. “You’re nowhere near ready to take me, boy.”

A vivid memory crosses Dean’s mind of the last few scenes Castiel ever did. Only once did he ever go bareback, and Dean has never come harder than he did the first time he watched it, the sight of Castiel’s cock doing things to him no other man could. Profiles almost always exaggerate, but Castiel’s never did—uncut, about nine inches long at the very least, and thick enough that Dean doesn’t think he’d survive. His mouth waters at the thought of sucking him off, or at least trying; even with his experience, he sincerely doubts he could, but he’s never been called a quitter by anyone.

“God, I wanna,” Dean pants, just as Castiel slaps his ass, teasing his fingers over his clothed cleft. Involuntarily, Dean thrusts, and Castiel laughs, swallowing his moan in another kiss. “Want you in me, wanna— _Fuck_ , wanna come on you.”

“How’s your knee?” Castiel asks, and— _ow_.

“Shit,” Dean groans, this time for an entirely different reason. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away to flop onto his back, lip between his teeth and pants tented obscenely. Not as bad as yesterday, but still, he can feel the ache beginning to set in. “You sure you think I’m good for this? ‘Cause there’s probably a ton of other—”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Castiel says, abrupt and heated enough to steal Dean’s breath. Languidly, he returns the favor and props himself up over Dean, just breathing, lingering close, too close. “I always swore if I came back, that I’d find a way to work myself back into Pamela’s good graces, just to meet you. I have that chance now, and I know”—his hand skirts down Dean’s bare chest and firmly cups his erection, startling a moan from Dean’s lips—“that you want this too.”

And wholeheartedly, Dean does. “You got no idea,” he rasps, swallowing past the knot in his throat. “Probably not the best time to say how I’m your biggest fan?”

Castiel chuckles and pecks Dean’s cheek. “I don’t mind.”

-+-

For the rest of the following week, Dean rests as much as he can. Castiel texts every few hours, presumably when he has a break, just to check in and see if Dean’s staying off his leg. Frequently, he asks if Dean is packing if he’s packing; what Dean does own all fits into two small boxes, mostly clothes and trinkets he’s accumulated over the last few years. Most of his actual belongings are back in Kansas, his room probably just as he left it, untouched by his brother or his dog. At least, he hopes.

Pamela calls, once, solely to know what dates Castiel picked for their trip. Dean doesn't know, but whenever it is, that day can’t come soon enough. The faster he can leave Los Angeles and head in the vague direction of home, the better. And, if he gets to spend time with the one person who inspired him to get into the industry in the first place, then even better.

Castiel doesn’t show up until Thursday, just as rain begins to pour across southern California, the blue sky turning a sickening gray within minutes. Water soaks Castiel’s hair and dusts the shoulders of his leather jacket, and Dean offers him a towel the moment he steps inside, out of courtesy. “Should I think of this as some kind of omen?” Castiel asks, mirthful as he dries his hair.

Dean pushes his shoulder and revels in Castiel’s subsequent smile, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. “Just be glad it ain’t hot for once. Swear, every time I step outside lately, I feel like I’m dying.”

“That’s why I always vacationed in Maine,” Castiel says. He tosses the towel in the direction of the bathroom and looks about the room, at the boxes stacked by the door and the made bed, the television turned off. Curtains drawn, Dean can still see the rain falling outside, illuminated under the one permanently lit streetlamp in the corner. “I have a house up there, a cottage on the ocean. If you’re interested in seeing it?”

“Dude, at this point, I’ll go see a cornfield if you ask me,” Dean laughs. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he rubs his clothed knee, compression sleeve left on underneath his jeans. For the first time in days, he can actually walk without limping, the pain finally reduced to a dull ache. As long as it continues to heal, Dean will accept that as a good sign. “You sure you still wanna do this?” he asks. Holding out his hands, he urges Castiel forward, delighting in the way Castiel approaches him and strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair. Just as warm as he remembered. “How’d your sale go?”

“I’m five hundred thousand dollars richer,” Castiel hums.

Dean rears back far enough to look him in the eye. Five hundred thousand—who in the world makes five hundred thousand dollars selling a house? “I’ve never seven seen more than five hundred-dollar bills in the same room,” he admits, bewildered, if not jealous. With that kind of cash, Dean could pay off his student loans and still have a sizeable portion left over. Well more than enough to buy an actual house with. “You normally make that much in one sitting?”

“Not typically,” Castiel says. Standing between Dean’s parted knees, he curls his fingers behind Dean’s ears, eliciting a shudder; eyes closed, Dean falls into it, lips parting. “I typically try to sell more suburban homes. The commission is nice, it keeps me busy.”

“And you don’t gotta take your clothes off,” Dean says, slurred, but all with a smile. “Kinda wish you would.”

“Tonight, maybe,” Castiel promises and sneaks in a kiss. “Are you ready?”

Castiel’s hands disappear, leaving Dean bereft once again. “Paid off the rest for the rest of the week. Good to go whenever you are.”

Earlier, Dean parked as close as he could get to the back entrance, the hood of his Impala parked half underneath an awning. No matter how quickly they shove the boxes and Castiel’s suitcase into the backseat, the rain still soaks them anyway, drenching Dean’s shirt all the way down to the hem. “Not how I wanted to start today off,” he says once he climbs into the driver’s seat, stripping out of his shirt.

Rain pelts the roof in a symphony, almost overshadowing Castiel’s heated kiss from the passenger seat. His hands are frigid and dripping, but quickly warm as he traces Dean’s torso, eventually resting over his crotch. “I bought two cameras last night,” he says, breath warm against Dean’s throat, where he licks the rain from his skin. Purely teasing, but Dean moans anyway, hips meeting Castiel’s palm. “One for the tripod, and one so I can watch you when you suck me off.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Dean grinds out, breaking into a laugh. “Fuck, you’re really gonna kill me, aren’t you?”

Rather than reply, Castiel kisses him, this time softer and too intimate given where they are. Thankfully, no one steps outside when Castiel dips his hand past Dean’s waistband, palming him over the front of his briefs. Heat floods Dean’s face, hands shaking where they grab Castiel’s coat, leather squeaking in his grip. Nothing about this is any more unusual than his almost-everyday, but here, with Castiel, it might as well be his first time all over again.

 _Tonight_ , his mind supplies, _wait until tonight_ , but his dick thinks differently, especially when Castiel kisses down his chest, nuzzling into the faint dusting of hair that’s just beginning to grow back in beneath his navel. “I wish they didn’t make you shave,” Castiel murmurs, looking up through hooded eyes. Swallowing, all Dean can do is nod, higher brain functions currently relocated somewhere further south. “The fascination with hairless bodies has never been attractive to me.”

“Explains a lot,” Dean gasps, just barely managing to keep his tongue in his mouth at the sight of Castiel pulling his zipper down with just his teeth.

Button undone, Castiel tucks his thumbs into Dean’s waistband and tugs them down to his thighs. Dean lifts up enough to help him along, hands ultimately ending up in Castiel’s hair when he begins to mouth at the wet mark staining Dean’s underwear. He can’t help bucking his hips; Castiel holds him down one-handed, the other guiding Dean’s cock into his mouth, covered by cloth but still hotter than anything Dean ever thought possible.

Castiel’s mouth feels like a sin, lips warm and plush, tongue working him over through his briefs. Head thumping back, Dean’s eyes dart from window to window while he holds Castiel’s head in place, allowing himself this one moment of a beautiful man in his lap, sucking him off without even having to ask. Eventually, Castiel peels back the fabric and sucks him down to the root, eyes locked on Dean’s the entire time.

From watching his videos, Dean knew Castiel was good at this, but feeling it in person, he can barely breathe. Warm hands guide him just where he needs to be, and ever so slightly, he thrusts into the heat of Castiel’s mouth, lip between his teeth as Castiel runs his tongue up the shaft. Occasionally, Castiel pulls off to lap away the precome, tonguing the slit and gathering up more fluid. “You should see your face,” Castiel says with a smirk, fist wrapped around Dean’s cock. _Huge_ , is Dean’s first thought, followed by, _I wanna suck his fingers_. “Though, I suppose that’s the point of all this.”

And Castiel _leaves_ him, pants hanging open and cock painfully hard, throbbing between his legs, all while Castiel palms his mouth dry, like he just didn’t edge him in public. “I’m gonna die,” Dean wheezes, and Castiel just laughs and pats his knee.

 _What did I sign up for_?

-+-

_Parowan, Utah_

Rain turns to snow the minute they make it across the Utah state border. Initially falling as scattered flakes, Dean watches it grow thicker, gathering on the dusty hills and the tops of road signs. Castiel, ever the observant passenger, can’t drag his eyes away from the sky, and frankly, neither can Dean. Not like anyone else is driving down this stretch of road anyway.

Yet, for another hour, Dean drives on, hoping that the storm will abate enough for them to keep trekking to the next major city, or even a proper town. Most of the cities they’ve passed in the last few hundred miles barely even had a restaurant, let alone an actual motel. “You sure we’re gonna be able to make it?” Dean asks, tightening his grip on the wheel. Castiel’s silence only unnerves him further. “Earth to Cas, here.”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel says, the first hints of hesitation breaking through. That alone makes Dean slow down, easing off the accelerator out of not only his own safety, but Castiel’s as well. “There’s a town a few miles up, we could stop there? I didn’t expect us to make it to Salt Lake today anyway.”

Dean snorts and softens a bit. “Underestimating me already?” he asks, throwing Castiel a grin. “I drove all the way out here the first time, and it rained the whole way.”

“Trust me, I think you’re more than capable.” Patting Dean’s thigh, Castiel sinks into the bench in an attempt to stretch his legs. He should’ve inherited a minivan or a sedan, not a piece of 1960’s Americana with next to no legroom, especially for two grown men. “But I didn’t anticipate you making it seven hours, let alone the nine we planned. Besides, I think I’m getting a cramp.”

“Old man,” Dean laughs, but keeps driving regardless.

The Crimson Hills Motel, when they finally pull up around six in the evening, has only one room left, and a few inches of snow in the parking lot. Dean waits in the car while Castiel checks in, furiously rubbing his hands together to keep warm. Snow piles up on the windshield wipers, threatening to completely cover the glass. Hopefully, the storm will taper off overnight, at least enough for them to leave. As much as Dean likes the idea of spending time with Castiel, they barely have enough food to last two days.

Sitting there, blissfully alone for the first time in hours, Dean thinks. About decidedly filthier things than he was imagining while driving, arousal fully blooming in his gut now that it can. Over the years, Dean has slept over at friend’s houses and colleagues, and fallen into the occasional hookup, whenever he found someone that didn’t know his face at first glance. But now, _James Deangelo_ wants to stay in the same room with him. Castiel wants to have sex with _him_.

And for practically all of his adult life, Dean has wanted nothing more.

Castiel knocks on the passenger window, snapping Dean back to attention. Waving the keys at him, Castiel moves to open the back door, dragging both of their bags from the backseat into the snow. “Maybe we should drop some of your things off on the way,” Castiel suggests, which makes a lot of sense, actually. If they can sneak in and out before Sam catches and interrogates Dean for his troubles, even better. “We’ll fit better back here that way.”

Startled, Dean chokes and beats his chest.

All motels begin to look alike after a while, at least from Dean’s perspective. A bed, a television sitting atop a desk, atrociously patterned wallpaper with an even more horrific bedspread, and the faint scent of detergent wafting through the air. Bags left by the door, Dean stands in the middle of the room, eyeing the king mattress with trembling hands.

One bed. _This is really happening_.

“I’m not asking you to do anything special tonight,” Castiel says. Gently, he palms Dean’s shoulders, easing the initial fear from his skin. “Have you ever bottomed before, though? I never asked.”

Dean hums, head tilting to the side while Castiel massages his nape, thumbs digging in underneath his shirt collar. “Couple times. I know the routine, but I just… Can I be honest with you?”

“Of course.” At that, Castiel backs away and sits at the edge of the bed, hands in his lap. Even with the intentional distance, Dean can’t help but sway back into his orbit, stepping between Castiel’s now-parted knees. “You can tell me anything,” Castiel whispers, slipping his thumbs into Dean’s beltloops.

Slowly, Dean breathes, eyes slipping closed. He can do this. “I’m scared,” he admits, letting out a hollow laugh. “Not of you, but just… this. Maybe a little you.”

“Again.” Castiel scoots closer, drawing Dean in, barely an inch between them. “I’m not expecting anything of you. This is just for fun, and anything you’re unsure of or you don’t want, we’ll discuss it.”

“Can we just… stick to blow jobs for a while?” Red-faced, Dean looks down at Castiel, the sincerity in his eyes terrifyingly real. Have they always been that blue up close? “I keep thinking about your dick, and—”

Castiel cuts him off with a finger over his lips; Dean has half the mind to take it into his mouth, just to spite him. Or, incidentally, turn him on. “Do you know what goes into bottoming for me?” Admittedly, Dean doesn't. “I’ve spent thirty minutes stretching a partner before, just because he was afraid he’d tear something. Most people think they can take me, until they see it in person.”

“Surprised you can walk around with that thing,” Dean says against Castiel’s finger. Without thinking, he traps it between his lips, and Castiel presses down on his tongue, allowing Dean to suck it at his leisure. _Thick_ , is his only thought. _Just like_ …

“I’d like to see you stretched around my cock some day,” Castiel murmurs. With his free hand, he palms over Dean’s crotch, tracing the line of his half-hard dick. “But I’d rather wait. Sex doesn’t just involve penetration.”

“Tell that to everyone else.” Releasing Castiel’s fingers, Dean sighs. “How do you wanna set this up? Before I totally kill the mood.”

“Dean.” This time, Castiel stands, cupping Dean’s face. Dean can barely look at him, pointedly staring at a freckle by Castiel’s collar. “If you don’t want to, you can say so. We can wait.”

“Just…” Sucking in a breath, Dean finally pulls away, arms wrapped around himself. All at once, the exhaustion of the day catches up to him. Castiel must sense it; Dean can tell from his body language that he’s worn out too, and he wasn’t even the one driving. “My fault. Just… Should’ve let you drive when you asked.”

Rather than reply, Castiel just draws Dean into a hug, the first platonic touch of the day, and probably the first since they’ve known each other. Nimbly, he strokes through Dean’s hair, until Dean melts into him, nose nestled in the side of his neck. “Are you always this nervous?” Castiel asks once Dean’s heart and thoughts have settled.  

 _Just nerves_ , he thinks, letting out a slow breath. Nerves, and driving seven hours for the first time in five years, and being stuck in a car with the man who changed his entire life trajectory with just his face. “Do you blame me?” Dean asks, eyes closed. “I’ve looked up to you for like… ever, and now I’m in the same room as you, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to use my hands.”

“Can I confide something in you?” Pulling back, Castiel continues to hold Dean’s face, thumbs sweeping along his cheekbones. Slowly, exhausted, Dean nods. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me. When I first left, my phone kept ringing for weeks, until one day… It just stopped. It’s been five years, and all I hear now, whenever I decide to search myself, is how much of a has-been I am. The world moved on without me, like… We’re known for our faces, but as soon as we’re no longer in the spotlight, it’s like we never existed in the first place.

“But you.” Foreheads touching, Castiel breathes with him, noses brushing. “I saw in you what I wanted when I was just starting out. I saw that innocence in you, the joy in your eyes, and I wanted that. I wanted to see it again, to be with someone who genuinely enjoyed what he was doing.”

“I wouldn't say I enjoy it,” Dean snorts, holding onto Castiel’s hips anyway. “I’ve wanted this for… longer than you can imagine. Don’t think it’s appropriate to spill all my dirty fantasies though.”

Castiel kisses him, sudden, but lacking the heat Dean felt just this morning, when the prospect of immediate sex was still on the table. “I can guarantee you I’ve had the same. I’m just saying, whatever you want, I’ll be more than happy to share it with you. You just have to let me know.”

Nodding, Dean slumps against him, and Castiel bears his weight with ease. “Lemme sleep first,” he says, and Castiel chuckles in his ear. It’s soft, and everything he needs.

-+-

All Dean remembers after ten o’clock is the sound of semis downshifting on the highway and Castiel’s soft snores—and a warm body pressed up against his, an arm slung over his stomach and rhythmic breaths warming his nape. Stirring, Dean familiarizes himself with the leg tucked between his own, the not-so-subtle pressure rutting against his lower back, the fingers tracing lines up and down his cock.

Castiel is awake, and Dean wants him, _now_.

“How fast d’you think you can set up those cameras?” Dean asks, groggy, but Castiel leaps out of bed anyway, stripping the topmost blanket off of them both in his haste.

Idly, Dean watches Castiel shuffle about the room, the faint morning light catching on his bare skin, illuminating him even brighter than Dean remembered. His cock bobs when he walks, half-hard but still impressive, and Dean can’t wait to get his mouth on it.. _Nice ass_ , he thinks, rubbing the heel of his hand against his cock under the sheets, just to stave off the want.

Castiel sets up the tripod a few feet from the bed with a series of clicks and pops; now that Dean sees both it and the camera in Castiel’s hands, reality fully sets in, nestling itself in his groin and sending a surge of lust through him. “What are you planning?” Castiel asks, screwing the camera onto the tripod before turning it on, lens pointed directly at Dean.

“Wanna blow you,” Dean moans, intentionally stretching his arms above his head. Whether or not the camera is on, he plays it up anyway, arching his back and letting his cock tent the sheets. Behind the tripod, Castiel strokes himself while he adjusts the settings. “C’mon, Castiel.”

“Fake names here,” Castiel reminds him. His finger hovers over the record button, eyes locked firmly on Dean’s. “Do you have any hard limits?”

Somewhere in his brain, Dean has everything he hates categorized down to an exact science. Words spill out of his mouth instead, all without any forethought. “No gagging, don’t hold me down, don’t… pee or anything. A guy tried to talk me into a scene like that once, that’s the only time I’ve ever walked out of a job.”

“I would too,” Castiel says, affronted. “Was that with Pamela?”

“God no.” Dean rubs his eyes again, breaking into a yawn. “First job, the one where the… thing happened.” The thing—God, _the thing_. The whole reason he’s in pain constantly in the first place. The thing he’s never mentioned in interviews, the thing he always has to have covered with makeup any time he’s not on his knees. “I only did one scene with them before I bailed.”

“Pamela always did treat you well,” Castiel says, a smirk on his lips. “I’ve always loved how your lips look when you go down on someone, no matter their gender.”

Of course Castiel would comment on that—everyone does, especially in this industry—but instead of being turned off by it, Dean revels in it, knowing full and well how he’ll look on camera, and in Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel clicks the on button, and after that, all Dean feels is warm skin and lips against his. Hands bracket his hips on the bed, Castiel’s weight bearing down on him; Dean accepts him with hunger, raking his nails through Castiel’s sleep-mussed hair. Here, still on camera but entirely alone with each other, Dean allows himself to feel, to moan whenever the sheer need arises while Castiel takes him apart, wholly and methodically. And only by some miracle does Dean manage to forcibly turn Castiel over, spreading him out onto the mattress with a thud.

“Didn’t think you’d be one for wrestling,” Castiel says, mildly winded, but otherwise grinning when Dean kisses him.

Dean moans into his mouth when their cocks touch, and all he can think to do is rut down even harder, grinding their hips together. Castiel holds him like that, broad hands guiding him, keeping them lined up until Dean pulls away, flushed and desperate. “Don’t make me come yet,” he rasps, shaking hands placed to the center of Castiel’s chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to kiss his way down Castiel’s torso, delighting in the pleased sighs Castiel gives whenever he finds somewhere particularly sensitive. Namely, the jut of his hips and his inner thighs, the muscles there trembling.

If Dean had to count every man he ever slept or filmed with over the past few years, it would probably equal just over fifty, maybe even higher—and none of those men looked anywhere as good as Castiel does now, all thick thighs and sharp lines, skin red and flushed with exertion. Kneeling between Castiel’s legs, Dean takes his time to admire Castiel’s cock with both his eyes and hands. He sucks three fingers into his mouth to wet them before stroking down Castiel’s cock, feeling the heft of it in his palm.

Now that Castiel is fully hard, Dean sucks kisses to the veiny underside of his cock, earning a choked moan. Holding down his hips with one hand, Dean laves his tongue up to the tip and gathers up the precome that spills over. Experimentally, he peels the foreskin back and sucks at just the head, letting it stretch his lips wide. _God, he’s thick_ , Dean thinks, not even bothering to hold back his moan as he works his way into it, easing his jaw and purely allowing Castiel to gauge just what he wants, what he needs.

And what he needs, here, is Dean. Fingers in Dean’s hair, Castiel holds him; not a forceful grab, but soothing as Dean sucks him in further. Even then, he can only manage halfway; with his gag reflex, he doubts he could take in everything. Instead, he opts to work over Castiel lazily, slowly taking in whatever he can while he palms the rest; shivers run down his spine when Castiel moans, when his heels dig into Dean’s thighs, when his hips buck up.

All the while, Dean listens to him, gives him what he desires: a warm mouth, a steady touch, someone to hold onto. “So good,” Castiel babbles, head thrown back when Dean finally opens his eyes. With his free hand, he reaches down to palm Castiel’s sac, shivering at the noise he makes in reply. “ _Fuck_ , where were you all my life?”

 _On the other side of the camera_ , Dean thinks. Reaching up, he takes Castiel’s free hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Briefly, he pulls off to stroke Castiel’s cock, slick with saliva and pulsing, balls drawn up tight. Castiel’s chest heaves, eyes pinched tight, a look Dean knows all too well. And this time, it’s because of him; this time, Castiel is his to milk dry.

“You can come,” Dean soothes, tongue dipping into his slit. Castiel keens, mouth wide. “You wanna come, James? Come down my throat with that big cock?”

“Yes,” Castiel groans. “Yes, please—”

Dean cuts him off by taking his cock more than halfway in, and physically, he feels Castiel’s moan reverberate through him. Another few strokes, and Castiel comes onto Dean’s waiting tongue, but mostly on his face, his spend dripping off Dean’s chin. Another day, and Dean will swallow; they should’ve done this with a condom anyway, just to be on the safe side, but Dean got tested last week, and Castiel the day before they left. Even then, he’s not a fan of the consistency of jizz, and lets it drip free while he kisses up Castiel’s chest, soon finding his lips.

For a while, Dean loses himself in both kissing and Castiel’s touch, hands nowhere near his aching cock, but for once, he can’t even bother to care. “I forgot the hand camera,” Castiel admits, and something in Dean’s stomach drops, even for a second. “You were so beautiful.”

“Next time,” Dean tells him, hiding a kiss under his jaw. Next time, Dean wants to see Castiel on his knees. “We got all the time in the world.”

-+-

_Kayenta, Arizona_

Dean doesn’t get to fully look at the video until later in the afternoon when they’re parked outside of the Burger King in Kayenta, Arizona, the winter sun beating down on the Impala’s roof. He eats like he’s starving, exchanging bites of cheeseburger for soda, all while Castiel watches the back screen on the camera, his wrapper already sitting at the bottom of the bag between them.

“You really do have amazing features, even at a distance,” Castiel says out of nowhere, and Dean almost chokes on a fry. “Look, you can even see your freckles here.”

“No offense,” Dean manages to get out, beating his chest, “but I don’t watch my own scenes. Kinda just… weirds me out, y’know?”

“You don’t like being objectified,” Castiel assumes, and Dean nods. “Trust me, I recognize the irony. For the longest time, I wasn’t able to look at myself in the mirror afterward.”

Wiping his fingers off with a napkin, Dean tosses his empty wrapper into the bag. “How’d you get used to it?” he asks, turning to face Castiel fully, leaning against the door. “’Cause I know what people like about me, I see it all the time, but it’s just… weird, being called out on it.”

Castiel shrugs and stares out of the front window. “It feels redundant to say that you get used to it, but… you really do. You have to dissociate yourself from your body and imagine yourself as an entirely different person, and every time someone looks at you like they know you from somewhere, you have to ignore it. Maybe you just have that kind of face, or maybe you travel the same way to work every day. It’s never anything personal, but you always know.” He stops, shakes his head. “Some days, it’s hard to recognize who you are, and who they see.”

Dean blinks, breathes. “Damn,” is all he says. Everything Dean ever wondered about, everything he ever feared, all put into one concrete thought. “What’s on there, what do you see? Is it you, or is it your persona?”

“This time?” Castiel chuckles, eyes gleaming in the sun. “It’s me. Us, rather. I don’t have to pretend around you, I don’t have to remember stage names and camera cues. I can just… be myself. I think that makes it easier, when I can sit here without cringing.”

That makes sense. If only Dean had that level of narcissism, or just appreciation of his own body. “I’ll bite,” he finally relents with a played-up sigh. “Just to see how it turned out.”

“Right,” Castiel says with an eye roll, not at all unkind. “Perfectly plausible.”

Before handing over the camera, Castiel presses a few buttons on the front panel, fast-forwarding to whatever he planned to show. On the screen, Dean watches—himself, with Castiel’s cock halfway in his mouth, hips rutting into the bed. The memory of his arousal resurfaces in a near-instant, just from listening to the noises he makes and how Castiel responds to it, hand in his hair and toes grappling at the bedspread. “Wow,” Dean manages, clearing his throat. “You got a—good camera, man.”

“I have the money for it,” Castiel reminds him, nudging Dean’s knee with his own. “You never did get off, by the way.”

“Kinda hard to forget,” he mumbles. On the screen, his past self pulls off Castiel’s cock long enough to slap his tongue with it, and Castiel comes like that, his spend drenching everything it touches. In Dean’s jeans, here and now, his cock twitches; Castiel runs his knuckles over the bulge, playful, but Dean’s hips still follow the touch. Dean sighs through his nose and worries his lip between his teeth. “We really do look good together.”

“I always hoped we would,” Castiel says, clearly proud of himself. “You give good head. Better than I thought you would.”

Dean blushes harder than he should. “Funny story about that,” he begins, frantically rubbing the back of his neck. “Never really done it on camera, and Pamela doesn’t believe in tops sucking cock, but I—” _Breathe, he’ll think it’s hot._ “I can suck my own dick.”

Castiel blinks. A mischievous glint takes light in his eyes, and he leans in to kiss Dean, quick and anything but chaste. “You’re perfect,” he rumbles and unzips Dean’s jeans, snaking his hand past Dean’s waistband to grasp his cock. Sucking in a breath, Dean fumbles for the top of the bench, one hand still on the camera, the video now stopped. “Don’t look suspicious,” Castiel says, glancing in every direction. “Don’t make a noise, understand?”

“Yeah,” Dean squeaks.

How he’s supposed to stay quiet, he has no clue, but he tries anyway. Castiel strokes his cock in full, wetting his palm with precome, while Dean takes the camera and presses the record button. He can feel his hips bucking, release not far off. _Too long_ , he thinks. This isn’t the longest he’s gone without jerking off, but after two failed orgasms in the past week and several aborted attempts on his own, his body has a mind of its own, especially with Castiel’s hand on him.

He comes before he can even warn Castiel, knuckles white where he grabs onto the steering wheel and the leather seat, eyes pinched shut; once the claustrophobia settles and his skin stops burning, he eases back down onto the bench, breaths deep and labored, hips flexing where Castiel holds him still. “Good boy,” Castiel coos, eventually letting up his grip. Setting the camera in the footwell, he grabs a dry napkin and wipes his hands clean, then Dean’s dick, gathering up any come that spilled over. “I never took you for an exhibitionist.”

“What can I say,” Dean laughs, practically a wheeze. A thought crosses his mind, and his cock attempts to thicken again, all under Castiel’s watchful gaze. “What d’you have planned for tonight, anyway?”

Castiel hums, trashing the napkin. “I take it you’ve fingered yourself before?” he asks. Just where Dean thought he’d go.

Breathless, Dean nods. “Couple times. Can’t really find an angle I like.”

Smirking, Castiel settles back into his seat. “Then I’d suggest you drive, so I can teach you.”

-+-

_Rio Puerco, New Mexico_

Off of Interstate 40 in New Mexico, amidst the never-ending desert and miles of asphalt leading to nowhere, sits a casino, a massive eyesore from the side of the road. “In the middle of nowhere,” Dean huffs in the elevator, duffel slung over his shoulder while Castiel taps the card key against his hip and stares at the mirrored ceiling. _Fancy_. “Seriously, out of all the places to stay?”

“We could’ve stopped in Albuquerque,” Castiel groans, stretching his arms above his head. “I don't think I could’ve taken another mile, though.”

“You and me both,” Dean huffs. “Please tell me we’re going somewhere specific, because I’m dying over here.”

“I told you before, I’m fully capable of driving.” Nudging his shoulder, Castiel just smiles. “I promise I won’t defile her.”

Dean snorts. “Already have. Unless you wanna ruin the backseat.”

The elevator dings at the fourteenth floor, and Dean steps out into a perfectly maintained hallway, lined with tan wallpaper and gaudy carpeting. As Castiel had requested, their room sits at the end of the wall, facing the interstate, away from the parking lot. “To see the sunrise,” Castiel reasoned, and Dean just went along with it, as long as he could get a shower and room service as soon as they sat down for two seconds.

The Route 66 Casino Hotel looks just like any other hotel Dean has ever stayed in. This room at least smells sweetly of oranges and laundered sheets, and waning sunlight pours through the sheer curtains.

 _Better than a motel though_ , Dean thinks, dropping his bag by the door. “Fuck, I need a shower,” he groans mid-stretch, raising up onto the balls of his feet. Appreciatively, Castiel looks him over before patting his ass and making his way to the bathroom. “C’mon, man, don’t hog the hot water.”

“I’m just checking to see if it can fit two people.” Castiel waves him off, camera bag in one hand; Dean has never followed anyone faster in his life.

For a casino, Dean expected something fancy, like a whirlpool tub or a vanity mirror, but this bathroom is plain. Small, even; just barely, the shower can fit both of them. Warm water beats down on Dean’s back while Castiel massages unscented shampoo into his hair, nimble fingers dancing behind Dean’s ears. Breathless, Dean leans into him, enthralled by both the water pressure and Castiel’s touch, Castiel mouthing a kiss to the underside of Dean’s jaw before he washes the suds away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots the camera sitting on the lip of the sink, red light blazing on. For the sake of the video, Castiel pulled the curtain off its loops, allowing water to soak the tiled floor. It’s nothing they can’t clean up after, but Dean hardens at the thought of utterly defiling a bathroom anyway. That, and Castiel’s thick thigh pressed between his legs. Castiel’s own cock sits soft between his legs—but not for much longer, if Dean has anything to do with it.

“I’m surprised you can stand after today,” Castiel says into Dean’s ear, both hands on Dean’s ass. Dean grabs Castiel’s in return, kneading the supple flesh while Castiel sucks his neck, their cocks nestled together. Dean’s knees threaten to buckle with just how good it feels to be held and kissed like he’s actually adored, but Castiel holds him steady, hips rocking in tandem while the water runs between their bodies, slicking the way. “Should we stay a day, or keep driving?”

Kiss-swollen lip between his teeth, Dean nods. “Wouldn’t mind staying here for a day, or even driving half the distance. What’s the next big city, Amarillo?”

“That could work,” Castiel murmurs. “You said you wanted to drop off your things?”

 _Right_ , he still has to do that. Lawrence is another full day of driving, though, and the last thing he wants to do is go all the way up there, especially based on the weather forecasts. Maybe he should’ve stayed in Los Angeles, after all. It certainly is warmer there. “Another time,” Dean says into a kiss, running his hands up Castiel’s spine. “C’mon, said you were gonna finger me.”

At that, Castiel hums and slaps his ass, hard enough to sear. All Dean can do is moan. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll fuck you tomorrow.”

Fuck— _Fuck_.

Compared to his mattress back at the extended stay, this one is a godsend, firm where it needs to be and soft in others. Toweled off as best he can, Dean falls onto the bed while Castiel sets the camera, shut off temporarily, onto the nightstand. The other handcam— _thank god, he remembered_ —he tosses to Dean before crawling onto the bed, tossing a bottle of lube near the pillows. “Film what you can,” Castiel instructs, stealing another kiss. “Just press—”

“I know how to work a camera, sheesh,” Dean joshes, playfully shoving at Castiel’s shoulder. It’s just a cheap camcorder. How hard can it be? “Now get over—”

Castiel forcibly drags Dean into the middle of the bed by his hips, all while Dean almost squeals, grabbing onto whatever he can find. Namely, the bedspread and Castiel’s knee. “You’re mouthy for someone about to come,” Castiel chides, and Dean just laughs. “Backtalk doesn’t get you anywhere.”

“Sure got me here,” Dean says, flipping the camera on.

Reaching over, Dean fumbles for the stationary camera as well and hits record. He tosses over the lube and parts his legs enough for Castiel to kneel between them; knees pin his thighs open, and Dean just looks at Castiel, all tanned flesh and strong muscle, glowing in the last vestiges of the sunset. Water clings to the tips of his hair, occasionally dripping down his neck, to his torso, to the thick thatch of hair between his legs.

Dean’s cock twitches at the sight, garnering an absolutely lecherous smirk. “Like what you see?”

“You know it,” Dean praises.

He makes sure to track Castiel’s pace with the camera, how his fingers shine when he slicks them, how he leans down to kiss the head of Dean’s cock. Dean can only tremble at that, more so when Castiel begins to pet over his hole, just rubbing for now and easing him into it. The other guys Dean has taken to bed never took their time with him, prep consisting of little lube, a couple of fingers and barely enough time to get used to the feeling before they slid home. This, though, Dean could get used to.

At least he’s familiar with fingering. Having someone blow him in the process, though, less so. Slowly, Castiel stretches him open while toying with his cock, free hand petting the inside of his thigh while he works Dean’s cock to the back of his throat. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean rasps, collapsing onto his back. By some miracle, he manages to keep the camera steady, tracking just what Castiel is doing even when he can’t.

“You’re doing well,” Castiel says in a lull, slicking his fingers again and slipping a second inside. He curls the digits into Dean’s prostate, sending sparks through his veins. Planting his hips into the mattress, Dean scrabbles for the bedding, holding on while Castiel tongues at his cock and gathers up the mess of precome spilling over. “You’re into it.”

“Yes,” Dean pants. Another finger glides in, the tip of Castiel’s pinky teasing his rim; Dean bites his fist just to keep from shouting, hips restless and riding Castiel’s hand. “Oh _fuck_ , yes, c’mon—”

Castiel’s pinky makes its way in— _four_. With just a little more insistence, he could get his entire hand in there. But Dean needs to drive, and the most he’s ever taken is three fingers. “How close are you?” he asks, and Dean has half the mind to kick him just for his troubles. “Michael.”

“Close,” Dean chokes out. Close is an understatement. If Castiel so much as touched him just right, he might pass out. With the last of his remaining higher function, he passes Castiel the camera, allowing him to film just how his fingers plunge in, obscenely soaked with lube. Dean still can’t get over how thick they are, sliding into him easily and curling, nudging, imploring. “Please,” Dean moans, a hand over his face. Through the gap in his fingers, he watches Castiel film him. “Please, James, _God_ —”

“Patience,” Castiel murmurs.

Castiel hands back the camera and laps at the head of Dean’s cock, and that alone sets Dean off. Come streaks his chest and Castiel’s lips before his orgasm fully takes hold, and Castiel sucks him through it, leaving Dean shouting soundlessly into the air, knees clamped around Castiel’s head. The camera captures it all in full glory, even Dean’s shivers as he comes down and every noise he makes, all of it from Castiel’s fingers.

“I could fuck you,” Castiel says once he pulls his fingers free, wiping them off on Dean’s abandoned towel at the foot of the bed. Dean shuts off the device before Castiel surges forward, pulling him into another kiss. There’s come on his lips, Dean’s come— _Castiel made me come_. “I could slip my cock into you bare, and you’d love it.”

“Want you to,” Dean begs, still shivering, but elated. “Said I wanted to wait, but—I want your cock in me.”

Castiel hums praise into his ear. A button clicks, extinguishing the last remaining camera, and Dean settles into Castiel’s subsequent embrace, head tucked up under his chin. Against his chest, Castiel’s heart beats, steady; in that moment, Dean realizes, he’s never wanted anything more.

-+-

“What do you think about dating?” Dean asks, half-asleep and drowning in blankets. Against him, Castiel stirs but doesn't move, probably just as groggy. “Y’know, with costars.”

“I tried a few times,” Castiel slurs out. He adjusts the pillow under his head and drapes his arm back over Dean’s waist, nuzzling into his nape. “It takes more effort than some are willing to put in. You wouldn’t imagine how jealous people get when you film with someone that isn’t them.”

Dean snorts, covering Castiel’s hand with his own. “Believe it. Just… got to wondering, is all.”

“I think I can guess.” With a sigh, Castiel sits up enough to look down at Dean. “We have similar backgrounds, we both worked for the same woman, and inexplicably, we’re comfortable around each other despite never having met.”

Sighing, Dean lets his eyes fall closed, just as Castiel brushes his fingers across his cheek.  “Feel like I’ve known you for years,” he says, leaning into it, into him. “I know it’s just interviews and all, but I never heard anyone say anything bad about you. And I always thought, here’s a guy I wanna go out to dinner with. And I mean, blow jobs are fantastic, but I just… I wanna know you, man. All my life, I think it’s always been you.”

“You flatter me,” Castiel says. Lips pressed to Dean’s forehead, he lies back down, drawing Dean close. “This isn’t a one way street, Dean. From the moment I met you, you enthralled me. You were older than your costars, and you actually finished college before you even decided to try to make it here. You’re incredibly articulate in your interviews, and you use everything you have to your advantage. You could sweet-talk anyone you wanted.”

“But I want you.” He touches Castiel’s face, brushing his fingers over Castiel’s ear. “Barely even know you, but… I actually like you.”

“I know.” For a moment, Dean watches Castiel calculate his next words, worry hiding in his eyes. “But I’m scared… if you knew the real me, that you wouldn’t want to stay with me.”

Dean blinks, stroking through Castiel’s hair until he settles. “We all have our baggage,” he admits. “I had a standard childhood, if you don’t count my old man drinking himself to death when me and my brother we kids. Mom did her best, and still does, but that ain’t the kinda pressure she needed, and neither did we.” He stops, nuzzles Castiel’s throat. “I’m still afraid of becoming him. What about you?”

It takes Castiel a minute, but he finally speaks, in a voice suited more for a man twice his age than someone verging on forty. “Until I got into porn, I was homeless. My parents weren’t exactly… accepting of my choices as a teenager, and the things I had to do just to survive… Most nights, I can’t sleep. I managed to stay away from hard drugs, but everything else was fair game, and it’s a miracle how I ended up clean at the end of it. But I’m just… tired, Dean. Of pretending to be James, of trying to reinvent myself after so long, of living with my regrets, and feeling like I can’t move on.

“I’m not the man everyone thinks I am, or wants me to be,” he sighs. His hand shivers where it rests on Dean’s shoulder. “All I’ve wanted is for someone to touch me like you do, to look at me not like I’m not just a number on a bathroom stall. Even now, with a stable job and a home for the first time in my life, I can’t help but feel so alone.”

“You don't have to be.” Sitting up, Dean straddles Castiel’s waist, the sheets falling from around him; Castiel clings to him, cradling his shoulders, an ineffable warmth in his palms. “You got me, okay? No matter where this goes, you got me as a friend, and I’m gonna stick around even when you don’t want me to.” He offers a smile and kisses Castiel’s lips, chaste, and effortlessly, Castiel kisses him back. “You never told anyone.”

“I didn’t want to become part of the stereotype,” Castiel says. “The whole, all pornstars come from broken homes, they’re only in it for the money. The women have father issues, the men just want easy sex. We’re treated like objects, and no one cares for us once we’ve exhausted our use. I didn’t want that to be my story.”

“You have your story.” Again, Dean kisses him, and Castiel surges up to meet him, a hand in Dean’s hair. “You can tell it when you’re ready.”

“You too.” Idly, Castiel strokes the back of Dean’s knee, feeling the straining tendons. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dean snorts into Castiel’s neck. “Ain’t a story. Just a bad accident.”

“Still.” He bumps Dean’s nose with his own, eyes slipping shut. Dean’s heart beats for him, pounding wildly in his chest, so unfamiliar yet all he’s ever dreamt of. This lust, this want. This… “Whenever you’re ready.”

-+-

_Glenrio, Texas_

Breakfast consists of ham, egg and cheese flatbreads from the Subway-slash-Travel Center in Clines Corners, an unusually warm morning sun beating down on the parking lot. Dean watches Castiel sit on the hood of the Impala, bare feet propped up on the grill while he finishes off his meal. “You still wanna stay the night in Amarillo?” Dean asks, stretching his arms above his head, then reaching down to touch his toes. “We can keep going, maybe hit Fort Worth by dark.”

“Amarillo works for me,” Castiel hums. Hands braced behind him, Castiel leans back, chin tilted to the sun. If only they could find a place with a pool and warm air—the beach, maybe, or Florida, then he could really see just how deeply Castiel’s tan runs. “How are you feeling? You took a while this morning.”

“ _God_ ,” Dean huffs, hands over his eyes when he stands. “How do guys put up with that when they bottom all the time? Eat some lettuce for God’s sake.”

Castiel laughs, eyes wrinkling around the edges. “As long as you don't do it every day, you shouldn’t build up a dependence. Though, some men I’ve met told decidedly different stories.”

“Too much information, man.” Dean playfully shoves Castiel for good measure, earning a laugh for his trouble. “You ever thought about it though, letting someone take you up the ass?”

“I’ve done it before.” Castiel shrugs, and Dean lifts a brow. “Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but they always finished too fast, and I put in the effort for nothing.”

“Selfish,” Dean chuckles. Bold, he ventures closer, but not close enough to draw wandering eyes from passersby. “I like getting fucked probably more than I should, but what say you? I give you a night to remember, and you tell me how you like it then?”

At that, Castiel grins, and if they weren’t in public, Dean knows Castiel would be on him. “I expect your best,” Castiel says, lust dripping from his words. Dean’s cock stirs just from the sound of it. “You didn’t win the ‘best top’ award for nothing.”

God, the _awards_. “I still got that thing in my trunk, you know,” Dean says, thumbing to the Impala. “Just because I did gymnastics in college, everyone thinks I should be able to bend like a pretzel. I’m thirty-two, man, not eighteen.”

“You’re certainly more endowed,” Castiel quips, and Dean can't help but snort. “Do you want to drive, or should I?”

Dean thinks about it for all of two seconds, the words spilling from his lips before he can even process it. “You know what, get in,” he says, digging his keys out of his pocket and tossing them to Castiel. “Be gentle with her, she’s not used to strangers.”

“She’ll be fine,” Castiel assures, and climbs into the front seat.

-+-

About an hour from Amarillo, Castiel pulls off onto exit zero, just before the Texas state line. Dean wake up to the crunch of crumbling asphalt under the tires, adrenaline thrumming. _This is it, Castiel finally wrecked my car_. Only, he didn’t—and the Impala stops in the parking lot of what was once a motel, now abandoned and left to rot amongst the trees. As far as Dean can tell, based on the dirt dusting the road, no one has visited here in a while.

“Here?” Dean asks after Castiel shuts off the engine. Cars roar by on the interstate just a few hundred feet away, oblivious. “You wanna—here?”

“It’s secluded.” Unbuckling, Castiel reaches into the backseat and grabs his tripod and camera bag. “I looked up roadside oddities this morning, and this came up. Unless someone has horrible timing, we should be fine on our own. Are you in?”

Dean shudders. He’s been blown in the car before, but having sex in public? Where anyone could drive by and see? “Fuck yes,” he wheezes, reaching down to palm his cock.

Together, they leave the Impala and walk over to the dilapidated motel; despite their age and rusted hinges, several doors sit locked, with termite tracks marring the surface. Dean peeks in one door and finds a wrought iron bed frame, a dresser with no drawers, and a busted television set lying on its front on the tile floor. The window, remarkably, is still intact, curtains and all; the air conditioning unit below it, not so much.

“I’m gonna get tetanus,” he tells himself, before he finally calls for Castiel. “You think we can do this in here without falling on a rusty nail?”

Behind him, Castiel peers into the room before nodding, a hand to the small of Dean’s back. A new surge of want rushes through him, all of his senses alert despite the nap on the way here. “Clear a spot, I’ll set up.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Dean says, and gets to work.

For the most part, he doesn't have to move much; the TV stays in place, along with the bed frame, but Dean tosses the remnants of a single-seater table and its excuse for a chair across the room, leaving it in a shattered hunk by the bathroom door. Castiel, meanwhile, tries out several locations for the tripod before settling by the entryway, the lens pointed straight-on toward the wall adjacent to the window. Shivers wrack Dean at the thought of looking out, being able to see if someone drives by or stops to watch. Blood thrumming, he opens the blinds wider and looks out on the dusty field and the weed-riddled asphalt beyond the trees.

Someone could see them—and Dean only wants it more.

Warm breath puffs against the shell of Dean’s ear, while one of Castiel’s hands snakes his middle, the other pressing over the bulge in his jeans. “You should undress,” Castiel whispers, stroking him steadily, tracing the outline of his cock. Dean feels Castiel against his ass; he’s already hard, and Dean can feel the throb of it even through layers of denim. This is it, the moment Dean’s been looking forward to for years. “I turned it on. We have thirty minutes before I have to change the card.”

 _Fuck_. “Get me outta these pants, then,” Dean says, breathless, and turns to face Castiel. Slipping out of his socks, Dean pulls his t-shirt over his head while Castiel unzips his jeans and tugs his briefs down with them. Finally naked, Dean kisses Castiel, gasping when Castiel fists his cock; just a few strokes to keep him interested, but Dean nearly comes from that alone. Castiel undresses much quicker, sweatpants coming off in a heap and shirt tossed into the growing pile by the bed.

If Dean had a pillow, he would sink to his knees right there at the sight of Castiel, illuminated by the sun, cock huge and hard and precome already spilling free. For now, he settles for a lazy handjob, all while Castiel sucks kisses to his neck, clinging desperately to Dean’s hips. At some point, Dean backs into the windowsill, and Castiel takes the opportunity to dig through his pant pocket for lube and a condom.

“Turn,” Castiel says, an order laced as a suggestion. Dean does eagerly, knees spread, hands braced on the sill; Castiel drops the condom and the handcam by Dean’s hand. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, gently smoothing a hand down Dean’s back before stopping just before his cleft. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not that big,” Dean joshes and shakes his ass. Castiel slaps it for good measure, and Dean moans, for once, not faked. “Want that cock in me, c’mon.”

“You’ll get it,” Castiel assures, close to his ear. Languidly, he thrusts his bare cock between Dean’s cheeks, holding his hips still while he moves, the bottle pressed firm into his skin. Dean can just imagine what it looks like, an image he’s seen all too many times, but never with him on the receiving end. “You should see yourself. You’re so red.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean pants, knuckles white.

Castiel leaves him briefly to slick his fingers, letting one circle his rim before pushing in. Dean prepped as best he could this morning, and Castiel fingering him before they left certainly helped; two fingers sink in easily, and steadily, Castiel thrusts them in with no real rhythm, mostly feeling Dean out, occasionally swiping at his prostate. Every time, Dean rises up onto his toes, only spurring Castiel on to press harder, just to make him shout, breath robbed from his lungs.

“Doing well,” Castiel murmurs as he applies more lube, three fingers shoving back in. After that, Dean just hangs on and rides him, hips bucking back onto Castiel’s hand as he moves. Dean’s cock jerks against his stomach, precome dripping to the floor. A fourth finger plunges in, thumb pressing into Dean’s perineum, and only by sheer will does he keep from coming, lip between his teeth. “I could do this all day,” Castiel says, crowding closer, cock jutting between Dean’s thighs. “Just keep you here, wring you dry. How would you like that?”

“Want it,” Dean moans, sucking in a breath. His gut tightens, nails digging into the windowsill’s peeling paint. Involuntarily, he clenches, and Castiel rewards him with a deeper thrust, all four fingers rubbing his prostate. If he could lift up any higher, he would; instead, he shouts, knees almost giving out. “Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ , I’m—”

“Not yet.” And Castiel pulls free, reaching for the condom. Lightheaded, Dean spins around and watches him rip open the package with his teeth, which is infinitely hotter than it should be. Even trapped in latex, Castiel’s has to be the largest cock he’s ever seen; it’s so thick when he wraps his fingers around it, just to feel its heft. _That’s going in me_ , he thinks, fighting the urge to suck him off right there. _I’m not gonna make it_.

With his thumb and index finger, Castiel takes Dean’s chin in hand, tilting him ever so slightly before capturing him in a scorching kiss, more tongue than anything else. “Let me take you,” he says, and Dean agrees wholeheartedly, turning around once again. Before he positions himself, he passes Castiel the handcam. “You’re reading my mind.”

“I know what you’re looking for,” Dean laughs. Castiel kisses his shoulder, somehow more intimate than anything else. “Know you wanna get in here.”

“You’ve made it awfully tempting,” Castiel says. The handcam clicks on, and Castiel pulls Dean back further, knocking his feet wider. Here, being watched at almost all angles, Dean revels in the exposure, chest no doubt flushed bright red just like the rest of him. “Someone could watch you,” he continues, pressing the blunt head of his cock to Dean’s rim, just rubbing there, teasing. Still, Dean opens to him, begging in every way he can. “Someone could see just how much you get off on this, and what would you do?”

“Come,” Dean admits, and Castiel finally— _finally_ —shoves in, somehow even bigger than Dean could imagine. Thankfully, Castiel takes his time, camera on the top of the air conditioner while he holds Dean close, easing him into it and keeping him steady. Dean gasps and clings to whatever he can, until his hands find Castiel’s; full lips suck a mark to his throat, and Dean moans with every thrust, Castiel’s cock sinking in deeper than he thought possible. “Feel you,” Dean groans. Their joined hands over his lower stomach, he swears he can feel Castiel’s cock move, even if it’s just a fantasy. “Fuck, feel so big.”

“Tight,” Castiel growls. Hand to Dean’s hip, he yanks Dean closer, and that’s it—the final inch, and Dean almost shouts, the noise caught in his throat. He did it— _I did it_. “Greedy,” Castiel huffs, winded. “You took it all, you know that?”

Nodding, Dean grapples for the window, desperate for something to keep him from falling. Castiel grabs the camera again in the interval. Slow at first, Castiel thrusts, but even just the slightest pressure keeps Dean on his toes; precome drips onto the floor, making a mess of it, and Dean can’t even bring himself to care. Never in his life has he ever felt so full, so complete, his body in the hands of the man he’s admired for so long. “Shit,” he curses, head slumped between his shoulders. “How’d I get so lucky?”

Not that he meant to say it out loud, but Castiel entertains him anyway, punctuating the thought with a harder thrust. _It’s on_. “You’ve always wanted this,” Castiel says, drawing out to the tip, then shoving back in, stealing Dean’s retort right from his lips. “You’ve always wanted to be split open on my dick, isn’t that right, Michael?”

 _Part of the scene_ , Dean reminds himself, but it’s not—this is all them, just with stage names attached. Them without scripts, without cues to hit and constantly changing positions. Castiel holds him like he’s something to be cherished, and Dean basks in it, moaning to his heart’s content. Castiel sets the camera down, still pointed at them, and takes Dean’s hips with both hands. After that, Dean can barely remember his own name.

If asked, Dean could recall a good majority of Castiel’s scenes, down to how enthusiastic he was with his partner and how many times his partner came. One of his favorites involved a newcomer named Max Banes, where Max rode Castiel like a champion, and Castiel rewarded him with three orgasms and the most brutal fuck Dean can remember. Now, he knows how Max felt, knows just how Castiel’s hips feel against his ass, knows just how rigid and sure his cock is and how he fills every spot Dean never even knew he needed filled.

Dean whines when Castiel pulls out, only for him to bodily lift Dean up and sit him on the window. Here, clinging to Castiel’s shoulders, Dean watches him push in again, slick with more lube. Almost too easily, Dean allows Castiel to hold him open, one knee hanging in the air and his other foot left dangling, all for the benefit of the camera by the door. Castiel resumes his pace, brutal but efficient, only slowing down to kiss Dean like his life depends on it. Hell, maybe it does.

Clawing at Castiel’s nape, Dean growls against his lips, “Want you to come in me,” in all sincerity, breath catching with how much he wants it. All Castiel does is nod, sweat gathering at his temple and dripping down the back of his neck. Still holding on, Dean fists his cock, precome slicking the way. If he wanted, he could probably come, just from Castiel’s cock alone, but he decides against it, especially with the way Castiel kisses him, hips growing more frantic, his pace shot.

“Wanna come with you,” Dean moans. Babbling, probably, but Castiel nods along, words for once stolen. “Fuck, gonna—please, James—” Impossibly, Castiel crowds him even closer, delirious in his ecstasy. “That’s it,” Dean gasps, eyes pinching shut. “Oh fuck, there, _there_ , please—”

And he comes—full bodied, ears ringing and body spasming as white spurts from his cock, striping his hand and stomach. Even then, he hears Castiel shout, strangled as his cock pulses inside Dean’s ass, growing even thicker. Castiel came—Castiel came inside him, condom be damned. “Fuck, keep going,” he begs, still stroking his cock despite the sensitivity. Castiel won’t soften for another few minutes, or so Dean has heard, and he intends to enjoy every second of it that he can.

“Too much.” Castiel shudders as he pulls free, his cock still twitching after he pulls the condom off; Dean keeps touching him, wetness still leaking into his hand, and Castiel groans deep in his chest, hips thrusting into his grip. “You’re too much, D—Michael.”

“Damn right,” Dean laughs, stealing another kiss. Castiel’s smile sears a brand into his lips, and Dean could never want anything more. “Fuck, I’m gonna feel that tomorrow.”

Castiel swallows, a hand to his chest while he breathes. “I think you’ve ruined me,” he says in all sincerity. “I’m serious, I haven’t come like that in…”

“Me either.” And Dean certainly hasn’t been plowed like that either, but he isn’t complaining. “Think we can do that again?”

Castiel nods at that, the light catching in his blue eyes. “Absolutely.”

-+-

_Shamrock, Texas_

Night passes differently in the spring, Dean notices. The clouds wisp by without a word, cars rarely pass by on the road except when they have to, and even in the middle of a small city, he can still count the stars and make out the brightest of constellations. Standing in the doorway, he finds Castiel sitting on a parking block, his attention turned to the sky, a jacket draped over his shoulders. Dean tugs his blanket around him tightly, then closes the door and joins him.

Even in the silence, Dean enjoys Castiel’s company and the warmth of his body; Castiel joins their hands underneath Dean’s blanket, letting them rest atop Dean’s thigh. “I’ve been thinking,” Castiel says, mist puffing in the air. “How much longer do you think we should go?”

The question Dean never hoped would come up—when they’d have to call it quits. “Thought you said you had a house up in Maine,” he says through a yawn. Resting his head atop Castiel’s shoulder, he closes his eyes and listens to the buzz of the neon sign. They overshot Amarillo by another hour, but the solitude of Shamrock, Texas makes up for it, especially this late at night. “Was I that bad?”

“What?” Castiel squeezes his hand tighter, but otherwise doesn’t move. “You were perfect. It’s not that, it’s… Can we drive for a while? I think we’ve got enough footage, and we can pick up again later, but…”

“I get it.” Dean smothers another yawn in his fist. They really need to go back to bed, and maybe sleep in until noon, if they’re lucky. “Sex and operating machinery ain’t exactly a good mix. Think the lust’s burned off?” It certainly hasn’t for him, but Castiel might be another story.

Castiel shrugs. “Not necessarily. But I’m older than you, Dean, by nearly a decade, and my body—”

“You cramping up?” Dean cuts him off, jostling Castiel’s shoulder. “Dude, if I’m wearing you out, you don’t gotta tell me twice. I’m more than happy just sitting in bed all day or hitting up tourist traps, if it means we get to be lazy.”

For a moment, Castiel doesn’t reply, but he does sigh, leaning his head atop Dean’s. “I feel like an old man some days,” he says, quiet. “I’m surprised I’ve been able to crawl out of bed this week.”

“My car ain’t exactly the pinnacle of comfort either,” Dean adds. He pulls away despite his best interests, palming his eyes until stars spark behind his eyelids. “Look, I get it if you don’t wanna keep going, trust me. I’ve done this road trip thing before, and shit gets stressful after a while. Just… If you’re not feeling it, you’ll tell me, right?”

Castiel kisses him rather than reply, scalding in spite of the chill in the air. “I’ll never get tired of you,” he whispers. Dean knows Castiel could fuck him in front of a crowd, and he still wouldn’t blush as hard as he does from those words. “But what if we went somewhere further south? Somewhere without snow.”

“Wouldn’t mind the beach,” Dean hums and nuzzles back into Castiel’s warmth. This time, Castiel drapes an arm around him, resting his hand on Dean’s hip. “Key West?”

“One of the Keys,” Castiel chimes. “Or we could stop by my home. Asheville is relatively quiet this time of year.”

Dean lifts a brow. “You live in North Carolina?”

A nod. “I own a cabin in the mountains. It’s beautiful in the fall, but it’s not much to look at right now.”

“Sure it’s great either way.” Another yawn, and Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. “Kinda deadset on Florida, though. Lived in LA for five years, and I never even went to the beach, can you believe that?”

“What did you do with your free time?” Castiel asks. “Have you ever been?”

“To the beach?” Dean shakes his head. “When I was a kid, but I was too young to remember. My brother went to Panama City with his graduating class, and I was so pissed because I couldn’t go with him. I just wanted to be somewhere warm, not fucking Kansas of all places.”

“Then let’s make up for it now,” Castiel decides. “We’ll look at a map in the morning?”

“If we wake up on time,” Dean says. Standing, he pulls his blanket tighter and nudges Castiel’s hip with his foot. “C’mon back to bed. Too cold to sulk.”

It takes Castiel a moment, but he finally makes his way to his feet, blearily wiping both eyes. “Not sulking,” he lies, but Dean kisses him anyway, dragging him back into their room. “Just tired.”

“You and me both,” Dean agrees. Maybe not for the same reason, but it’s all the same. “You and me both.”

-+-

_Rayville, Arkansas_

No matter how hard Dean tries to shake it, something feels off. Like the axis of the world has tilted around him, or some distant planet just shifted into retrograde. Sitting in the front seat of the Impala, he consoles himself by rubbing his scarred knee. He’s been to bars before—several times, mostly alone, but sometimes with friends, if someone needed a wingman or a distraction.

Never with a man, though, and never outside of Los Angeles. As it is, no one in Rayville has probably ever seen a gay man in their life, and Dean feels like the butt end of a horrible joke just thinking about it. “Does this feel like a good idea?” he asks, catching Castiel’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, a gay and a bisexual walk into a bar, how’s this gonna end?”

“I doubt anyone will recognize either of us,” Castiel says, throat thick when he swallows.

Despite his bravado, Dean senses the insecurity in his voice. They should’ve just stayed at the hotel, or kept driving until they hit the next major city. _If_ they ever hit a major city, Dean thinks—they might as well be in the country with how rural they are, slogging along four-lane highways in the middle of nowhere. “I’ve had to punch a few guys before,” Dean says, mostly to ease his own nerves. “We’re just here to have fun, right? Get a couple beers, shoot some pool. Nothing suspicious.”

“Nothing suspicious,” Castiel repeats, just as unsure as before. At least Dean isn’t in this alone, then; they can be terrified together.

For a Thursday night in a small town, traffic is slow inside; Dean counts about fifteen people in total, including the two bartenders and an old man asleep in the corner, chair propped up against the wood-paneled walls. Above the bar, the local news plays on two flat screen televisions, the sound barely audible above the noise of the jukebox, blaring out some song Dean doesn’t recognize. The majority of the patrons crowd around two of the billiards tables, while a few chat loudly at the bar, their conversation growing more frantic as the seconds pass.

Yet, Dean still can’t shrug off the unease. “It’s fine,” Castiel whispers, no longer standing close, bleeding warmth.

The chasm between them feels unnatural, lost from each other’s orbit—and in that moment, Dean knows. _Knows_ , like his own skin, like the rhythm of his heart, that this is how it will always feel with Castiel around. Breathless and yearning, Dean wants him, for as long as he can have him.

It’s a split second realization, but Castiel catches on, his smile almost… bashful. He leaves for the bar without a word, and Dean shifts his attention to the pool tables, where two men wave him over with drunken grins. _Good_ , Dean thinks. Just as long as the drinks keep coming, then maybe he and Castiel can make it out of here without causing too much of a disturbance. These guys probably don’t even know him; maybe he’s being paranoid for no reason.

“New guys rack first,” the taller of the duo—Chris, according to the nametag on his coveralls—says, tossing Dean the plastic triangle. “You place bets?”

“Not unless you’re looking to lose,” Dean quips, earning a laugh out of both of them. Gathering up the balls, he tosses over the cue and aligns the rack, just as Castiel returns and hands off one of the beers. “Now, I ain’t done this in a while, but it’s like getting back on a bike, right?”

“Easy enough,” Chris says, raising his drink. “Jamie here’s a former pro.”

“Yeah, ‘til I threw my arm out.” In emphasis, Jamie rubs his shoulder underneath his leather jacket. “Now I just come here Thursday nights while my wife’s off with her bridge club.”

“Sounds like the life,” Castiel says, to Jamie’s agreement. “I’ve never played pool before.”

“Here,” Chris pipes up before Dean can cut in, setting his beer down on the wall table and grabbing a cue stick from the wall. “I’ll set you up, your buddy here—”

“Dean,” Dean chimes.

“—Dean racked it up like a natural.”

From the other side of the table, Dean watches Chris help Castiel line up the first shot, enthusiastic in his teachings; he can’t help but laugh at just how serious Castiel is, and Jamie shoves Dean’s shoulder playfully, leaning over onto his own stick. Castiel pulls his arm back, swings forward—and the balls scatter, number seven landing in the corner pocket. “Now that’s a shot,” Jamie laughs, pushing Dean again. “Good thing I didn’t put a twenty down.”

After that, Dean loses track of time. One beer turns to two, and Dean cuts himself off after that; Castiel, however, finishes three and is still sober enough to contemplate a fourth, but decides against it. Jamie takes the first round against Castiel by a wide margin, and Dean wins against Chris after a brief scuffle over the eight ball. The music grows louder, and Chris ends up with his arm around Dean’s shoulder, probably talking too close for comfort. No one else appears to mind, though, and a crowd gathers round when Dean takes on Jamie, arranging the balls between them.

The bell over the door tinkles, and despite the slight buzz in his brain, Dean perks up, stomach dropping purely out of fear. He hadn’t noticed anyone come in or leave in the last thirty minutes, so why now, at almost midnight? Looking over his shoulder, he spots a wiry man, with broad shoulders and eyes that never quite settle on one thing for too long. Jacket pulled tight, he wanders up to the bar and exchanges a few words with the bartender before turning, gaze locked with Dean. If anything, his expression only grows colder, lips curling as Dean stands up straighter, now with an audience.

Chris speaks first, both arms crossed over his chest. “Thought it wasn’t your day to show up, Craig,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Got word there were a couple’a pervs in town,” Craig says, the first person Dean has heard all evening without an accent. Not from around here, but he fits in enough with the locals to be on a first name basis. Dean clutches the seven ball tight, having half the urge to chuck it across the room just to make a point. He never was a good pitcher, though, and there are hundreds of glasses he can’t afford to replace behind Craig.

“You've got the wrong guys, either way,” Jamie pipes up, a hand to Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel grows a few shades paler, but otherwise just barely keeps his composure. “Gay or not, they ain’t pervs. And Cassie here can probably kick your ass without even trying.”

So they know—everyone knows, and no one said anything? _No one cared_?

“Still don’t make no difference.” And Craig advances, right in Dean’s direction. Chris pushes him out of the way with force, both hands to Craig’s shoulders; Craig fights him off with a punch to the gut, and continues forward. “Never took kindly to you people, ‘specially your kind. Whippin’ it out in front of everybody, who th’ fuck d’you think you are?”

 _But you know who we are_ , Dean wants to say. And he knows why Craig cares so much, why Craig is projecting his frustrations onto them. But that’s no excuse for him smashing his boot into Dean’s kneecap, crumpling him to the floor without any hint of remorse. After that, Dean can’t remember much other than splintering pain and Chris calling his name, somehow audible over the roar in his ears. His knee—the bastard shattered his knee again, just when it finally stopped aching.

The voices overhead grow louder, more intense; hand covering his knee, Dean looks up through the tears, only to see Castiel lunge forward with a right hook to the jaw, knocking Craig out flat, body thudding onto the tile. No blood, thankfully. The last thing Dean wants is for Castiel to kill anybody in his defense.

“I should call an ambulance,” Jamie says from above, but Castiel stops him, kneeling at Dean’s side to help ease him up. “You sure?”

“We don’t want to cause any more of a scene than we already have,” Castiel explains, taking Dean’s hand. Dean squeezes it, knuckles blanched in his attempt to alleviate the pain. “You might need to call one for him, though.”

On the floor, Craig groans; no one offers to help him up.

The crowd scatters, albeit quieter than they arrived. Dean takes in the silence, the guilt on his shoulders; not only did he ruin everybody’s Thursday night, but he ended up hurt in the process, and Castiel might really be in trouble if Craig ever gets up. “Never should’ve come here,” Dean mutters after Castiel and Chris carry him outside, keeping the weight off his knee. Castiel helps perch him in the front passenger seat, keeping his leg extended. The good news, he can still bend it; the bad news, it still hurts. “Told you this was a bad idea.”

“We were havin’ a good time, up until fuckin’ Craig showed up.” Chris rubs his beard, brow furrowed. “I’m not gonna apologize on his behalf. We’ve been tryin’ to keep him out for months, but he keeps comin’ back. Normally he ain’t that violent though.”

Castiel shakes his head, breath stuttering. Deep in his heart, Dean hates the fact that he’s the reason for it. “I wish I could say this was something out of the ordinary,” he says, to Chris’ nod. “I’m sorry to put you through this.”

Chris waves him off, pulling his coat tighter. Cold air nips at Dean’s skin, painful in spite of the adrenaline. “My brother’s gay. Left Louisiana a few years back, ‘cause of people like him. Trust me, the stuff he tells me? No way I could ever even understand half of what either of you go through. Just be safe out there?”

“We’ll try,” Dean says, weary in his reply, but he smiles all the same. “Next time, I’m gonna kick your ass again.”

This time, Chris laughs and backs away, heading in the direction of the front door. “See y’all around, then.”

-+-

Dean doesn't scream until they pull into the parking lot of Richardson Medical Center, only a few minutes down the road, but longer than Dean has had to endure that kind of pain in a long time. All at once, his leg seizes, and he rests his head on the dashboard, both hands over his knee, breathing through his teeth. Castiel waits until they park before he unbuckles Dean’s seat belt, dragging him into a firm embrace; Dean clings to him, tears in his eyes, and muffles his agony into Castiel’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Castiel shushes, covering the back of Dean’s head. “It’ll be alright, Dean.”

Vehemently, Dean shakes his head, lip between his teeth. “Don’t let them put me under again,” he pleads through the pain. They probably will, he knows, but anesthesia has never settled well with him; the last time someone knocked him out, he didn’t come out of it for a solid day, and never truly woke up for three. “Please, don’t let it be broken.”

“You’ll be fine.” Castiel kisses his cheek, shivering as he pulls away. “Let me carry you, please?”

“Feel like such a baby,” Dean admits. Eventually, he pulls away, turning to face the door while Castiel exits the Impala, meeting him on the other side. “Thirty-three years old, man.”

Castiel sighs and, popping open the door, extends a hand. “Pain is pain. No one would blame you for crying.”

 _I would, though_ , he thinks. The one thing he never wanted to do, cry in front of Castiel. “Don’t leave me,” he begs. “Promise I’m not weak—”

“You’re not weak.” Sure as ever, Castiel helps him up and hoists him into his arms, Dean’s arms around his neck, and Dean clings to him, hiding his face under Castiel’s chin. “You’re strong,” he whispers. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”

 

-+-

Morning light pours in through the curtains; occasionally, a cloud passes by and blots it out, but it always returns, blinding Dean once again. Moaning, he bats at the light, only to find a face instead, particularly a nose and half an eye. “You’re groping me,” Castiel rumbles, pulling Dean’s hand away from his face, only to thread their fingers together. _Warm_ , is all Dean thinks. Warm and strong, more reassuring than Dean has ever known. “Do you want me to close the blinds?”

“Not yet,” Dean yawns. Wiping his eyes, he finally looks at Castiel, his heart sinking at the room surrounding them. Hospital. _They admitted me_. “Fuck,” he groans. “Did they put me under?”

“How much do you remember after they started the IV?” Castiel asks, and—not much, really. Distantly, he knows Castiel carried him into the emergency room, but after the two hour wait just for morphine, the rest might as well be a dream. “They scanned your leg, and all of your tests came back normal. Apparently, all your plates withstood the force,” Castiel says. That’s good, at least. They didn’t have to slice him open and ruin his tattoo. “You don’t have to tell me, but… You’ve never talked about it in interviews, and every time someone asked you in the past, you sidestepped the question.”

 _What happened_ , rings out clear. “You want the long or the short story?” Dean asks, knowing full and well Castiel wants the complete explanation. Castiel squeezes his hand, and Dean sits up straighter, now fully taking Castiel in. He’s sitting in the one chair at his bedside, next to the heart monitor and his half-empty morphine drip. Blissfully, Dean relishes the numbness. “The studio I was in before ours, you know it?”

“Paradiso,” Castiel says. “They shut down two years ago.”

“Good for them,” Dean snorts. “Best thing that could’ve happened to them. But yeah, my… I did two films with them, technically. My first video, and then we were supposed to do a second.” Massaging between his eyes, he sighs. “We were trying to do an intro, and they had me in assless chaps on horseback. Nobody told me that the thing had never seen a camera crew before, and it got spooked and…” He stops to mimic flying with his free hand, and Castiel hisses. “Kicked me in the kneecap for good measure. I was out for a good half a year, had to go into physical therapy after surgery, and they decided that because I wasn't bringing in money, that I wasn’t any good to them anymore.”

Castiel blinks, his face souring. “They fired you after they were the ones at fault?”

“They told the lawyers it was an ‘act of god.’” Dean rolls his eyes. “But yeah, there’s still promoted tweets out there somewhere. It’s the ‘western that never was,’ or some shit like that. Nobody ever told them I almost lost my leg in the process.”

“That’s…” For what feels like an eternity, Castiel stares at him before walking over to the window. He looks out over the Rayville skyline, his tight grip on the windowsill blanching his knuckles white. “You should’ve sued for negligence.”

Bending his good leg, Dean hugs it through the flimsy sheet, only now realizing his state of undress. He never did miss hospital gowns, not by a longshot. “They wrote it into my contract. Underhanded thing to do, but it’s my fault. I should’ve read the damn paper instead of signing with the first people I interviewed with.”

“That’s still no excuse.” In haste, Castiel pushes away from the window, now threading his fingers into his hair. “Instead of doing the responsible thing, they avoided incurring a loss, and ended up shutting down anyway. And there’s—” He turns to Dean, eyes wild. “You’re sure you couldn’t do anything?”

Dean shakes his head. “Trust me, if I’d’ve had to pay, I would’ve gotten the best lawyer my ten-thousand dollar check could buy. I had insurance though, so I just took the hit and…” He stops, waves at his leg. “Metaphorically ran. More like hobbled. But I’m fine, Cas. I know it could’ve been worse—”

“You could’ve lost your leg,” Castiel cuts in. Returning to the bed, he takes Dean’s face in his hands, curling his fingers behind his ears. “Or died.”

“But I didn't,” he sighs, and covers Castiel’s hands. “And I met you, so there’s that.”

“Please don’t injure yourself just to see me,” Castiel chuckles. Dean delights in his kiss, only pulling away when someone clears their throat at the door. A doctor, from the looks of it, with white scrubs and curly black hair pulled back into a loose bun. She lifts a brow to them, expectant but curious, and Castiel pulls away. Dean laments the loss, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.

“Trust me,” she says, offering a smile. “I’ve walked in on worse. I’m Dr. Tiffany.” She extends a hand to Dean, her dark fingers calloused against his palm. “Do you remember me from yesterday?”

Dean shakes his head. “With what y’all got me on, I’m surprised I remember my own name.”

“That means it’s working,” she laughs. “Mr. Novak, sit, please. We’ll finish up here, and then you two are free to head out.” Castiel does, only on her request; he slumps back into his chair, and Dean wonders if he even slept. “All of your X-rays came back normal,” Dr. Tiffany explains, pulling up part of the sheet to expose Dean’s knee, still red with inflammation but no longer as swollen as it was when they took off his pants for him. “It could’ve been a lot worse than it was. How long have you had arthritis?”

Arthritis? “Is that why it’s been jacked up for the last year?” he asks. It’s such a simple explanation, not that it makes him feel any better. “Guess that’s what I get for not taking that vacation last year.”

“Might as well do it now, if you can,” Dr. Tiffany says. “All I can recommend are anti-inflammatories and just keeping it elevated. No stressful activities, no long walks, don’t decide you wanna take up soccer for a month or so.”

“How are we supposed to become the national champions now?” Castiel jokes.

Idly, Dean pets his hair, marveling at how quickly his heart settles from something so innocent.

“As I said, it could’ve been worse.” Covering his leg, Dr. Tiffany offers a smile. “Whoever your surgeon was knew what they were doing. A few decades ago, and you would’ve lost your knee.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’d hurt less than this,” Dean sighs, to Dr. Tiffany’s worried glance. “Just glad it’s all in one piece.”

“If you wouldn’t mind me asking, how did it happen?” she asks. Dean can’t answer. Doesn’t want to, rather, not while the memory is still so fresh.

Castiel tenses under his hand. He spots Castiel’s knuckles, bruises blossoming purple and green. “Had a bad fall,” Dean lies, feigning a grin. “Though it was the end of the world, you know how it is.”

Dr. Tiffany nods, not in the least bit buying it. Still, she hands Dean a clipboard with discharge papers and bids them goodbye, wishing them luck. Later, a nurse will come by and remove the IVs, apparently, and after that, they’re both free to leave whenever they wish. While they wait, Dean looks over the papers and strokes through Castiel’s hair, twirling strands around his fingers.

“I should’ve been looking out for you,” Castiel says, low, almost drowned out by chatter outside. Sitting up, he palms his eyes. “We should’ve never gone, and you wouldn’t be—”

“Cas.” After tapping Castiel’s cheek, Dean takes Castiel’s hands into his. “We had fun, you said it yourself, right? When’s the last time either of us went to a bar for the hell of it?”

Castiel sighs through his nose, his breath deflating. “A long, long while. But that’s no excuse, I should’ve…” He stops, turns his face. “I can’t help but feel this is my fault.”

“Dude, no.” Gently, Dean squeezes Castiel’s bruised hand, pressing his knuckles to his lips. “Last thing I need is for you to start blaming yourself. What’s done is done, and that douchebag got what’s coming to him. You wanna know what I’m happy for?” Castiel nods, his gaze still locked on the end of the bed; Dean turns his face with one finger, drawing him into a kiss with ease. “That you stayed. ‘Cause the guy I was dating when this happened last time? Dumped me in the ambulance.”

“Shit,” Castiel huffs. A vein throbs in his forehead, and Dean smooths it over with his thumb. “Are you sure you’re alright, Dean?”

 _No_ , Dean wants to say. Later, he’ll walk out of here—or roll, if Castiel can snag him a wheelchair—and they’ll be on their way to Florida, and wherever the road takes them. Later, he’ll figure out just how he feels about the ordeal and this entire trip in general. But one thing he does know—Castiel stayed, and Castiel won’t leave him, even after hearing his story, even after seeing him at his most broken. “I’m fine,” he says, and this time, he means it, sealing it with a kiss. “Let’s get out of here, Cas.”

-+-

_Santa Rosa Island, Florida_

Okaloosa Island ends up being about seven hours from Rayville, just far enough from the mainland that Dean’s jitters finally ease and his skin warms with the sun. Feet in Castiel’s lap and seatbelt haphazardly strung around him, Dean watches the pines transform into palms, fronds blowing in the breeze. Sand and salt rush through the open windows, the chill of winter temporarily halted, replaced with near-eighties and a cloudless sky. “Think someone wrote a country song about this,” Dean says above the road noise, leaning his head atop the bench seat.

Castiel smiles and pats Dean’s ankle, thumb slipping beneath the hem of his jeans. “I would take us further south, but the Keys are a day’s drive from here.”

“This’ll be fine,” Dean laughs.

Rubbing his knee, he turns his attention away from the road to Castiel, the subtle sweep of his nose, the sharp jut of his cheekbones, just how bright his eyes glow in the waning sunlight. Never before has he looked so beautiful, and Dean wants to remember this moment for as long as he lives. The moment he knows he’s in love. Years spent admiring Castiel for his prowess and intellect, none of it compares to knowing him in person and learning his story, understanding him at every level.

Whether or not his feelings are requited, Dean doesn't care, so long as he can keep this memory alive.

Castiel checks them into the Holiday Inn just as reds and golds begin to lick the horizon, bringing with them a brisk chill, but not enough to warrant staying inside. Newly procured cane in hand, Dean makes his way through the lobby while Castiel carries both of their suitcases, keeping a respectable distance but never straying too far away. Shame heats Dean’s face, from both the cane and having to be cared after; the first few months after the accident flash before him, the days spent stuck in his apartment tending to himself while no one answered his calls, the homesickness and cabin fever that wreathed his mind, the fear of the world and the self-hate.

Castiel touches his shoulder as soon as the elevator doors close, a reassuring pressure. _Not alone anymore_ , Dean thinks, heavy eyelids fluttering. He doesn’t need a caretaker, but a helping hand never hurt.

Their room, located on the top floor and facing the ocean, is the greenest thing Dean has ever seen in his life. Sea green jumps out from the walls and the bedspread, and even the paintings and blinds. The entire thing reminds him of the ocean; he closes his eyes and swears he smells the salt. A couch sits facing the television, not the most comfortable thing in the world, but he doubts they’ll use it much anyway, what with the bed right there, more inviting than ever.

“Just wanna sleep for a week,” Dean says through a yawn, sitting at the edge of the bed. Castiel drops their bags by the dresser and meets him there, standing between his bent knees. Weary, Dean embraces him, cheek pressed to Castiel’s stomach. Castiel draws him closer, hands buried in his hair. “Wish we were at a nude beach.”

Castiel snorts, chest heaving with his sudden laugh. “Really?” With a finger, he urges Dean to look up. “I knew you were a voyeur—”

“Not like that,” Dean scoffs, but doesn't deny him. “Just wanna see what you look like in the sun.”

“Right,” Castiel hums. With a kiss, he shoves Dean back onto the mattress and crawls over him, elbows bracketing his head. “Wouldn’t want to get a sunburn, though.”

In his jeans, his cock twitches; Castiel takes advantage of it by hiding a kiss behind Dean’s ear, hips grinding down, slow, languid. Taking his time, easing him in—and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. “Think I love you,” he blurts, only belatedly realizing the gravity of his words.

To his shock, though, Castiel doesn’t abandon him. Instead, he just kisses Dean deeper, tongue imploring while he tugs at the back of Dean’s head, tilting him into it. Like Dean would even try to back out now. “Love you too,” Castiel says, whisper-soft, then sucks a mark to Dean’s collar. “I’ve always felt something for you, even before I knew you physically. I wanted to get to know you, and now that I have…” He stops, rearing up enough to capture Dean’s face in his hands, thumbs sweeping over his cheeks, the day old stubble he hasn’t gotten the chance to shave. “I couldn’t want you more.”

“Probably could,” Dean chides, and earns a kiss for his trouble. Relief floods him, and he clings to Castiel as tightly as he can, nails digging into his shirt. “Fuck, you’re too good for me.”

Shaking his head, Castiel falls onto the empty side of the bed, dragging Dean flush in the process. “Won’t ever be good enough,” he says, “but I’ll always try, for you.”

 

-+-

The sound of crashing waves and wind through the palms wakes Dean late the next morning. High above the horizon, the sun casts light throughout the room, for once subtle. Rolling over, Dean finds the left side of the bed empty, and his heart sinks only momentarily, until he spots Castiel on the porch, looking out at the passing clouds. Yesterday feels like a distant memory, but thinking on it, Dean just buries himself under the covers even further.

“You’re awake,” Castiel says from the porch, yanking Dean out of his thoughts. The chair creaks, and Castiel makes his way back into the room, the mattress dipping with his weight; Dean closes his eyes at Castiel’s touch, fingers threading through his hair. “Do you need anything?”

“Need to piss,” Dean says, none too seriously. “Other than that, feels better than last night. The leg.”

Softly, ever so gently, Castiel kisses his cheek; the heat rolling off his skin betrays him though, and Dean gravitates towards him, seeking what only he can provide. “Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asks as he pulls the blankets down and away from Dean, exposing his nakedness to the empty air. Fingertips dance down his stomach, and Dean hides his face, embarrassment flushing him red. “Or would you rather wait?”

 _Now_ , Dean tells himself. Get it over with now, and he can find out what Castiel has planned after, if it doesn’t completely kill his budding erection. “I’ve been… called names before,” Dean says. His heart calms when Castiel’s hand leaves him, now curled close at his side, just waiting, listening. “Whatever you can think of, I’ve heard it. Just… never had a guy try to break my leg because of it, though.”

Castiel blinks, nodding along. “I know the feeling. Trust me, I… The things I’ve endured over the years, I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. But the toll of having to bear it, of knowing that the next person you see could want you dead just because of who you love, isn’t healthy for anyone.” He stops, butts Dean’s forehead with his. “I started seeing a therapist when I moved to North Carolina, just to cope with everything, and to learn to come to terms with it.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Dean says, and Castiel nods. “None of us should have to go through this, just because… Just because.”

Palming Dean’s face, Castiel pulls him in for a kiss, this one barely a press of lips before it’s gone. Still, it lingers long after, a tease Dean can’t help but crave. “I wish I could say it gets better, but it doesn’t. But we’ll survive in spite of it,” he says with a stroke over Dean’s knee, “and we’ll bear the scars.”

“Just wish I didn’t have to have this one,” Dean snorts, kissing Castiel once more. “Wanted to ride you off-camera, but I don't think that’s gonna happen any time soon.”

“What about the other way around?” Castiel asks, and— _oh_. Now, it makes sense, why Castiel wouldn’t leave his side last night, why Castiel pinned him to the bed and kissed the life out of him before they slept, why Castiel is hard in his sweatpants. “I didn’t want to make you strain yourself.”

“No, that’s—That’s perfect,” Dean says, a bit winded. Castiel wants to ride him—James Deangelo wants to _ride him_. “Did you—”

“While you were asleep.” Nuzzling his cheek, Castiel strokes Dean’s cock, half-hard but filling, before dragging himself off the bed. “I think this’ll be our last time on camera, if that’s alright with you. Whatever footage we have is more than enough—”

“But not the last time, right?” Dean blurts before he can catch himself. The idea of Castiel leaving now, of calling both their project and their relationship quits, effectively kills his newfound anticipation. At least, until Castiel looks at him, the sun casting golden light in his eyes, now every bit as ethereal as Dean always imagined. “Cas—This ain’t the last time, right?”

“Never.” Again, Castiel crawls onto the bed, this time straddling his hips, surrounding him in every way he can. “Just because I’m turning the camera off doesn’t mean I still don’t want this. Do you understand me?”

Swallowing, Dean nods, all he can manage to do.

“What we have, I don’t… I just found you, and I don't want to lose you.” Foreheads touching, Castiel tilts Dean’s chin up, lips meeting almost on instinct. “Whatever happens, we’ll take it as it comes. But until then—”

“Yeah.” Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck, dragging him closer, bathing in the warmth he finds there. “Don’t want you to go, either. Just… want you with me. Even if that means moving to North Carolina.”

“Asheville isn’t a bad place to live,” Castiel muses, ending with a smile. “I’d love for you to come home with me, though. I’m… tired of living alone.”

Nothing in Dean’s life has ever resonated with him more than those few words. They’re simple, but he knows them, feels them deep in his soul. The constant loneliness, the dread of waking up every day to the same routine, all with no one to share it with. The need to just have someone to talk to, to wake up next to, even when he doesn’t feel like he deserves it. “Let’s go, then,” Dean agrees, and kisses Castiel’s grin off his face. “Take me home, Cas?”

Castiel chuckles, eyes slipping shut. “Let’s take a vacation, first. I checked the weather this morning, it’s snowing up there.”

“God, never mind,” Dean laughs. “Might as well hop on the horse now, then. Got enough time to kill.”

“And I intend to take my time,” Castiel assures, and—Dean is doomed.

After that, Dean watches Castiel putter around the room, setting up the tripod at an angle, capturing both the bed and the porch. Waves crash outside, audible with the screen door open. In the meantime, Dean maneuvers himself to the bathroom, showering as quickly as he can while Castiel readies for their final performance outside; whatever he has planned, Dean can’t wait to find out.

His attempt to walk today fares better than it did last night, when his foot felt like he was walking on needles; now, he stands under the spray and rinses hotel body wash from his skin, occasionally shifting his weight between legs, but never enough to hinder him, or even hurt, for that matter. As soon as he dries off and towels the last of the water from his hair, he slips his compression sleeve on and exits the bathroom, all to find the light already blinking on the camera and Castiel on the bed, naked and two fingers deep, head thrown back against the pillows. Any other day, and Dean would straddle him and sink down, straining every muscle he has, in spite of his knee. Now, his cock twitches, even harder when Castiel catches sight of him, a third finger slipping in.

“Shit,” Dean says, practically a gasp. Despite his haste, he keeps his footing and climbs onto the bed, already shaking with need.

With his other hand, Castiel drags him down into a kiss before slipping his fingers free, wiping them off on the towel beneath him. “Lie down,” he instructs, and Dean obeys automatically, cock hard where it bobs against his stomach on his descent. From the nightstand, he hands Dean the hand camera and a condom, just before he turns, exposing his slick hole and the red sheen dying his back. Reverse cowgirl; Dean can work with that. “You took your time.”

“Told you I had stuff to do,” Dean quips back, patting Castiel’s hip for his trouble. “You been waitin’ for me all morning?”

“And I don’t intend to wait much longer,” Castiel rumbles. For emphasis, he presses his ass against Dean’s cock, just grinding, but Dean moans regardless, aimlessly holding onto Castiel’s hips to keep him in place.

One-handed, Dean strokes his fingers over Castiel’s rim and sinks one inside, biting his lip with the warmth surrounding him, slick with lube and clenching. “Been waiting on me?” Dean asks, not really expecting an answer. Castiel moans anyway, slumping over while Dean nudges his prostate with two fingers; if only Dean could see his cock, could marvel at how it twitches, just from this. “Fuck, wanna get in you.”

It sounds scripted, Dean knows, but it’s the truth. Never had he imagined he’d get the chance to fuck Castiel, especially like this. Ripping open the condom, Dean smooths it down, just in time for Castiel to pass him the lube. “Film it,” Castiel breathes, so close to a plea but not quite.

With the last of his higher brain function, Dean turns on the hand camera before he lines his cock up, pressing the sheathed head up and in. Never before has something felt so right. Out of all the women and men Dean has had the pleasure to fuck over the years, no one has ever felt this tight or welcomed him so openly, and briefly, he wonders if this is how Castiel felt back in New Mexico. Dean could never get enough of this.

Slowly, hips flexing and toes curled up against Dean’s ribs, Castiel sinks down, and Dean grasps his hip, guiding him into place and fighting off the urge to just buck up and take. “Fuck,” he hisses when Castiel finally seats himself, breath stolen from his lungs. “Fuck, wish I could see you.”

Castiel doesn't bother with a verbal reply—he pulls up instead, leaving only the head inside before he shoves down, wet and hot and _tight_ , and Dean never wants it to stop. Occasionally, Castiel glances over his shoulder while he moves, one hand busy with his own cock while he uses the other to hold onto Dean’s, fingers dovetailed together. Somehow, Dean manages to keep the camera steady, especially when Castiel places a hand to Dean’s sternum and just _thrusts_ , near-whiting out Dean’s vision with just how frantically he moves, chasing his own release.

Which—“Look at me,” Dean pants, gripping Castiel’s hand tighter. “C’mon, lemme see you.”

Fluidly, Castiel pulls off him, spinning around in a mess of limbs; Dean kisses him while he lines back up, knees bent and practically twitching by the time Castiel envelops him, all the way to the root. The camera, Dean sets by the pillow, and together, they meld, Dean shoving up and into Castiel’s heat, Castiel just hanging on and devouring every noise Dean makes. The bed springs creak under their weight, and the headboard thumps against the wall, even after Castiel grabs hold of it.

“De—Michael,” Castiel manages, face buried in Dean’s neck. Just once, Dean wishes he’d slip up, would just blurt his name to the world. “Michael, _fuck_ —”

“I got you,” Dean whispers. Arm around Castiel’s neck, he fists Castiel’s cock, marveling at how wet he is. Castiel comes with a quiet groan, breath caught while he spills into Dean’s hand, body pulled taut, on the very edge of shattering. Dean fucks him through the aftershocks, biting what he hopes is an eventual mark to Castiel’s collar when he finally—finally, after what feels like decades—comes, hips flexing, toes curled and tugging at the sheets.  

Coming down takes longer this time, so caught up in Castiel’s touch, in his kiss. Eventually, his soft cock slips free, but Castiel doesn’t let go, too intent on maintaining contact, for as long as he can. The hand camera shuts off somewhere along the way, and the other one across the room. All the while, Dean refuses to break apart, still basking in the euphoria and Castiel’s occasional laugh. “How’s that?” Dean asks, brushing Castiel’s nose with his own.

“Just right,” Castiel says, content. “Just perfect.”

-+-

_Asheville, North Carolina_

Castiel sends Pamela the footage two days later, while Dean rests atop a beach towel, his toes digging into the sand. A steady breeze blows off of the Gulf, ruffling his hair and easing the warmth from the sun overhead. “We probably should’ve filmed normal stuff between us,” Castiel mentions after he sets his phone down, shoving it between the pages of a hardback from the gift shop down the street. “Though I suppose no one is watching for that.”

Dean shrugs, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. “It’s good in theory, but most people skip it. Least, I did.”

“You just wanted to see my cock,” Castiel joshes, flicking Dean’s shoulder. Like Dean can even deny that. “This might be the filthiest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And that’s saying something,” Dean laughs. “I’m sure she can pull something together, even if she has to get someone to come interview us.” Blinking up at the sky, he turns his head to Castiel, admiring his broad chest in the sun, water stubbornly clinging to the thick hair there, dusky nipples peaked. If other families weren’t there as well, Dean might kiss them, just to get Castiel to squirm. “Does she even know where you live?”

“Unfortunately,” Castiel sighs. Lifting his sunglasses, he rubs his eyes before replacing them. “I suspect some people might be catching wind by now about where I’ve been. It’s not national news worthy, where I’ve been, but… I’m hoping no one goes to the press with it.”

“If anything, it’d just be the industry blogs,” Dean adds. “Is anyone gonna care, with what you do?”

Castiel shrugs, noncommittal. “Some straight men know who I am, just from affiliation with the company, and none of them have ever seemed to mind. Still, there’s that fear of wondering whether or not my next client will fire me because they’ve seen my work, or heard of me. It’s… inescapable, at this point.”

“Just gotta muddle through,” Dean wonders aloud. Castiel nods, settling further into his towel. “Shit, I gotta find a job once we leave here.”

“You said you worked as a mechanic?” Castiel asks. “There’s a few shops in town, if you’re interested. There’s always tourism jobs as well.”

“Like, the big mansion up there?” Castiel nods. Not that Dean would mind—customer service has always been his strong point—but dealing with tourists on a day to day basis, not so much. “I’m sure whatever I find, it’ll be better than having my ass powdered daily,” Dean snorts. Removing his sunglasses, he takes off the compression sleeve and sets it to the side, afterward offering Castiel a hand. “You wanna carry me out to the water, Cas?”

Castiel tilts his glasses down, a challenge reflected in his eyes— _oh, if only we were alone_ , Dean thinks, just before Castiel stands and helps him up—and promptly scoops him into his arms, entirely effortlessly. Before anyone looks over, Dean sneaks in a kiss, hiding his smile against Castiel’s lips. Even with the families present, they can still do plenty together.

Swimming, for one thing. Falling in love, another.

-+-

An independent blogger, one of the many people vying for interviews over the past half year—and, incidentally, one of Dean’s former costars—drops by in the summer, almost a month after the debut of _Driving Fast & Hard_. And only on Dean’s personal recommendation does Castiel allow her inside for the one and only interview either of them intend to give.

Most of the questions are standard—how did you meet, how did you feel partnering up for your film, how did Pamela react to your sudden retirement—but one stands out. Dean expected it, and Castiel probably had the answer rehearsed for years.

“You were at the height of your career, James,” Lisa begins, looking up from her list of questions and the tape recorder on the coffee table. “Other studios were attempting to scout you away from Sainted Angels, but you decided to leave altogether. What happened?”

Dean watches Castiel with a barely-subdued grin, propping one ankle over his knee. Castiel just shakes his head and leans back into the wingback couch, head tilted up to the wood-paneled ceiling. “I just wanted to sell houses,” he says, completely serious, and Dean can’t help but laugh. “I got tired of selling myself, and I always had a passion for real estate, so I focused my energy in another direction. And as you can see,” Castiel stops to wave his hand around the study, lined with full bookshelves and commissioned paintings and wall-to-wall rugs, “it’s worked out well for me.”

“He’s a big showoff,” Dean snorts, patting Castiel’s thigh. “But he’s my showoff, and I love him for that.”

The tape recorder glares up at him, and Dean stares back, knowing full well what he just said. Lisa doesn’t admonish him, though, and Castiel kisses his cheek. “It’s great that you finally found someone,” she tells Castiel, red-painted lips curling into a grin. “I know you were always wondering about the future, but I’m glad to see that you’re happy. Both of you.” She turns to Dean, her smile never fading. “And what about you, Dean? What made you retire?”

 _A lot of things_ , he wants to say. Hopelessness, the physical toll, the loneliness of living in a city with no escape in sight. Instead, he rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder and breathes, joins Castiel’s hand in his. “Got tired of being alone,” he admits, and deep in his heart, he means it. “And I’m not alone anymore. Not with him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo, it's done!! My first of three challenges so far this spring/summer! I hope y'all enjoy this one, because it was super fun to write. I wanted to do something more realistic regarding porn and the industry involving consequences of exertion and all that, so hopefully that came through as well!
> 
> As always, thanks to Bexy for betaing and Bexy and Ana for cheerleading all the way, and to [Dmitri for the wonderful art](https://feathergrave.tumblr.com/post/184583588590/get-your-kicks-my-art-for-tragideans-fic-for) (again!!!) This wouldn't be what it is without you guys!
> 
> Title is from the song, "[Route 66](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gii8RUIdXmU)"!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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